The Price of Repentance
by Salienne de Lioncourt
Summary: Post movie. John teaches a guilty and dutybound Angela how to harness her psychic abilities and handle halfbreeds. At the same time, a halfbreed starts to stalk her. Angela must handle both this halfbreed and her growing feelings for John.
1. Prologue

**Plot Summary:** Takes place about two weeks after the movie. Feeling very duty-bound, not to mention incredibly guilty, Angela has Constantine teach her how to harness her psychic abilities and how to handle half-breeds. However, at the same time, she meets a certain demonic half-breed who has influenced a murder she's investigating, and he soon breaks the rules. He begins to stalk Angela, who now has to come to terms with this new world of angels and demons, her growing feelings for Constantine, and this psychotic stalker.

**Rating:** M (for language and some violence and gore mainly and some John/Angela later on)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own John (tho' I steal him sometimes and keep him AND Sparrow in me closet then), Angela, Chas, the taxi, the bowling alley, or any other places/things/ppl/etc from "Constantine." These all belong to WB, the directors, the writers, Vertigo DC comics, and so on and so forth. Please don't sue me. I'm 16 and unless you really want an N64, you're not going to get much from me. I love you all! You do great work! (Please don't sue:P)

**A/N1:** I first saw "Constantine" a few weeks ago, and already, I've got over 60 pages written of my fic. O.o Needless to say, I'm in LOVE with this movie and am VERY obsessed. Plus, I'm really working out my writing skills on this one and trying some new stuff, so anything you guys notice, whether it's really good or somehow off, anything really, point it out please.

**A/N2: **This fic is also available at this site (without the spaces, naturally): http / www . freewebs . com / constantinefic /.Some parts are gonna become rather MA, so the edited version will be up on here, and the complete, unedited version will be up there.

**A/N3: IMPORTANT-THIS PROLOGUE WAS PUT UP AFTER CHAPTER 3, SINCE I ONLY JUST WROTE IT. **Hence, any and all reviews on it would be appreciated, and chapter 4 will be next up!

* * *

**_The Price of Repentance_**

**Prologue**

Angela was surrounded by Hell. She felt it in the very air around her, in the very fabric of reality, like oppressive smog and heat that gave thickness to the atmosphere, thickness tainted with sulfur and human suffering, like a soiled pillow reeking of filth and death being placed ever-so-slowly over your mouth and nose, smothering you. It was difficult to breathe, to think. Angela sensed it, felt it, _knew_ it. Hell was there, as solid as the cool tile floor beneath her feet, and as insubstantial as the Aurora Borealis or the spirit of God that supposedly filled the Church.

Where was God now? _Where was God now?_

"You're going to be all right, John, you're going to be all right…" It was a mantra she chanted, over and over again, tears running down her cheeks and obscuring her vision, obscuring his pale, pale, _far too pale_ face from view and falling onto the lapels of his coat, onto his shirt, hell, even onto his face and hair and neck. "I called an ambulance. You're going to be all right."

What had she done?

Couldn't this be a faerie tale, a simple fairy tale? Please God, please, any old faerie tale would do, one where everybody lived happily ever after. Not real life, not reality. Anything but that. Please, either a dream or a fairy tale. Either let it all end, leaving her in a cold sweat in bed and John safely hunting down demented demons, or let her tears hold magical properties. Let her tears bring him back to life, the crystalline droplets of salt graced with some divine spirit, some spark of divinity that would make this horror end, that would keep him here, on the mortal coil, that would bind him temporarily to the Earth. That would keep him from going on to the next realm. She'd give up anything, absolutely anything. Her psychic abilities, her car, her apartment, her cat, even a place in Heaven, if, by some off chance, she was still entitled to one. Anything to keep him alive.

She couldn't lose him, not now. And especially not to Hell. _Especially_ not to Hell. John Constantine didn't deserve Hell, he never had. He'd just been a scared kid, a hormone-and-terror-driven adolescent who'd seen no way out. And he'd been saved, hadn't he? The whole Mammon affair, it had saved him, hadn't it? There was no _way_ that Lucifer could still claim his soul.

He couldn't be going to Hell. He couldn't be. He didn't _deserve it!_

Yet why else was Hell there? Why had it come? Why was it coming? Which one was it? Had it already gone?

She couldn't tell. All she knew was that she could _feel_ it, but in her panicked state, she wasn't able to concentrate, to determine if her mind was exaggerating her sixths sense, if her feelings were interfering with her abilities, if Hell was even still there. Mightn't it have come and gone for another soul?

Was John still with her?

Yes, still breathing, speaking even, talking to her.

God, what had she done?

"Damn," the dying man gasped out, his head held on her lap as she kneeled flat on her knees, holding the sides of his face in her trembling hands. "Never thought I'd go out like this."

Even in death, he was still he.

"Damn it, John, don't say that!" she cried out, her voice thick with tears and agony unimaginable, agony that could fill every chasm and canyon out there, every river and pond and stream and lake, and still manage to flood into the oceans and cause a tsunami or seven. Or six hundred and sixty-six. "Don't you dare die on me!"

First her sister, and now this? It wasn't right, it wasn't fair. He couldn't leave her, he couldn't die. He couldn't. How could she have done this?

_What had she done!_

The blood was pooling, gurgling, like a fountain not quite strong enough to propel its load into the air. Like a water-fountain whose water just barely managed to leak out and trickle down, but with speed. With a great, great deal of speed.

Like a gunshot wound to the chest.

His white collared shirt, it was too red, far too red. It was dyed red, as if never before had it been anything but crimson, as if the white was the stain, although this color of purity was not the glistening one. Was not growing. Had it always been this red, his shirt, as red as fire and sour, mouth-puckering cherries and squashed, mutilated raspberries and venomous serpents and the hazard lights at a crash site and Snow White's lips and the poisoned apple that had touched them?

As red as blood?

Angela was no stranger to blood, no stranger to gunshot wounds, no stranger to the stench of copper that permeated the senses and managed to somehow make its way onto your tongue, although the last thing you would ever do was put your mouth to the warm, pulsing liquid of cells and plasma and platelets. And although it had never been a pleasant thing nor a thing she was proud of, she was no stranger to inflicting fatal injuries that made the blood gush and brought instant death.

She _was_ a stranger, however, to inflicting these slow-acting wounds, to firing her gun and hitting not murderers and rapists but those she loved.

If the ambulance didn't get there soon, he was gone.

And it was all her fault.


	2. Before She Goes

**A/N: **Well here's the first chappie, guys! Hope y'all enjoy! Make sure to R&R! Advanced critique (or any sort of critique, really ;-) ) encouraged!

**

* * *

**

**Before She Goes**

**Several Months Earlier**

It was strange, really, although not exactly unexpected. Chas, Chas Kramer, an angel, or technically, a half-angel. A half-breed. God really did have one hell of a sense of humor.

Walking across the crisp green grass of the graveyard towards the exit, the infamous John Constantine popped a fresh stick of nicotine gum into his mouth, musing. It made sense, really; if anyone deserved it, it was that kid. Always there, always wanting in on the action, always "apprenticing" to the greatest extent that John would allow. Now, he'd always be just where he'd always wanted to be: smack dab in the middle.

"You did good, kid," he'd said to Chas, to his grave, and now the words held an even deeper meaning. The kid hadn't just done good; he'd done _very_ good, very _very_ good, good enough to be promoted to the ranks of angel on Earth.

And it was one less ghost following him around, one less death to prey on John's conscience, mind, and heart. At least Chas had ended up perfectly fine. He'd received God's grace to the greatest extent possible, although at the cost of death, it almost wasn't worth it. Almost.

_That kid should've stayed up in heaven_, John thought, but only halfheartedly. If this was what he wanted to do, all power to him.

Besides, now, with Gabriel gone both psychotic and human, he'd need another "in" from Heaven to clue him in now and again. The kid would work wonders.

The kid could assure him Beeman and Hennessy were up in Heaven, right where they belonged.

* * *

Constantine drove up to the front of his building in the school-bus-yellow taxicab that had once been Chas's. The taxi's medallion, the taxi itself, Chas had bought it all himself. And in the Will he'd had the foresight to make, he'd left them both to John. 

Constantine got out of the car and shut the door, not even bothering to acknowledge the irony of the words "City of Angels" written across it.

Of course they'd forgotten the "Demons" part.

He spit the gum out of his mouth, off to the side into the gutter. He then made his way onto and along the gray asphalt sidewalk, black leather shoes clacking softly against the ground. As he made his way around the cherry red front of the building, the blue, yellow, and blue again "Bowl, Bowl, Bowl" written along the right side of the wall wasn't even acknowledged. Had he been able to see the neon "Bowl, Bowl, Bowl" flashing from above him, he wouldn't have taken any notice of that, either. He'd seen this same exact sight countless times before.

John rounded the corner, moving past the establishment's original, catchy title, and entered. Up the stairwell he went, and ta-da, here we was. Home sweet home. It wasn't a suite, but it _was_ fairly large and it wasn't a shithole either. It was a decent place to live.

Beeman had once been here too, his office in the guts of the institution, behind the bowling alleys. The memory of his death by Balthazar's hand was still fresh in Constantine's mind.

He came up the creaky steps to the second floor, the one on which he lived. And here was his apartment door, brown with protective markings and words carved into the rim surrounding the door. Through the dark wood, he could hear the phone ringing. For just how long it had been ringing, though, he had absolutely no idea. For all John knew, it was the Pope calling for the seventeenth time to officially declare him a saint, and with this call, it was it. Bye, bye immortalization and worshippers. Right.

Damn, he _really_ needed to get a cell phone.

Taking his key out, he quickly unlocked the door, shutting it behind him and moving to his right towards the wall that served as a kitchen, with shelves coated with things like plastic cups, containers, glass jars, paper napkins, pots, pans, and a metal lamp, a stove, and a large white refrigerator. There, directly beside the door, on the very wall of which the door was a part, was a white, corded phone.

Without so much as opening the shades of the windows that spanned the length of the entire apartment, water cooler bottles of holy water lining the wall underneath, John picked up the phone, although who was calling him, he had no idea. His latest escapade saving the world from Mammon had put a severe damper on his list of friends.

"Hello?" he said into the phone, picking up the receiver just before the answering machine would have spoken for him.

"John?" Was it Angela?

"Angela?"

"Yeah, I just wanted to call and tell you I'm back from, you know."

"Don't say anymore. The rules-"

"The rules, yeah."

There was a silence then, one in which both Angela and Constantine had a plethora of things to say, and one in which neither could say any of them.

"So," Angela began, "do you want me to stop by? I have work tomorrow, and today's probably the soonest I could manage for a while."

"Sure," John replied.

"Okay. I'll be over in an hour or so?"

"All right. See you then."

"Bye."

"Bye."

He hung the phone up, but then he looked at it contemplatively as it sat silently in its cradle. To his own surprise, he found himself with a small smile on his face as he did so.

John stepped away from the phone and turned, walking on the brown and white tiled floor, past the old, dark brown wooden table directly beside the wall that was his kitchen, past the entrance to the bathroom, past the short dresser, and past the large, wood-supported sliding screen door behind it.

Soon, he was there, in his "bedroom," not really a room of its own but a part of the giant room that was the apartment when the sliding door wasn't extended across. His bed, currently covered by a burnt caramel coverlet with creamy white designs, was there, its head and the bedside table next to it obscured from view by the sliding door. John completely ignored the short, red armchair in the far left corner of the apartment, across from the bed, but moved past it, to his bed. He ignored the wide variety of books on the shelves on the wall. Instead, he lay down on his back, his head resting on his hands atop his pillow.

Although the memories of dead comrades nagged at him, pressed at his mind and heart, for just a few minutes, he let himself reminisce about a happier time:

* * *

It had been three days since Angela and John last met on the roof of John's building, the one in which John had given Angela the Spear of Destiny, and Angela had finally figured out what to do with it. She'd already called her the Department and informed them of her immediate 2-week leave of absence to mourn after her sister; she'd already called the Airline and booked her flights. No, not one flight; she would be far too easy to trace then. She'd booked multiple ones to multiple places in order to throw off anyone trying to find the Spear. After all, for all anyone knew, every single one of these flights was a diversion, and she'd hidden the thing in L.A. 

She'd called her friends and told them she was going away, and had her parents still been alive, she would have called them as well.

Now there was only one thing left to do: bid John farewell, at least for a little while.

After all, she couldn't have him thinking a vicious half-breed had killed her in his quest for the blood of Christ.

True, she could have called him; after all, she was a cop. It wasn't exactly _difficult_ to acquire his phone number; she'd found where he lived, after all. But for some reason, she preferred the face-to-face approach.

Parking her black SUV in front of the Bowling Alley atop which Constantine lived, behind the taxicab that she'd been told once belonged to Chas Kramer—the boy who'd been killed trying to save her and prevent hell on Earth—Angela got out of her car, shutting and locking the door behind her. Today she wore simple blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and a black leather jacket, her cell phone in her pocket. Her badge and gun were in places of easy access. Her auburn, subtly highlighted hair was up, out of her way. On her feet were black Nike sneakers, the same ones she'd gotten soaked in John's bathtub during her "crash course" in hell, and in her hands was a purse of Earth-colored designs, one that her hands clutched over-protectively. In this purse was an object, a dagger, covered by a cloth.

After taking a deep breath, she made her way into the building, up to John's apartment.

Why was her heart beating so fast? Why was she _nervous_? This was ridiculous. Yet it was also somehow thrilling and amusing and new and old all at once.

Chuckling at herself, she made her way up the stairwell, the purse clutched tightly in her hands. However, when she reached Constantine's door, all signs of mirth vanished. This was it.

After taking another deep breath, she knocked on the door.

Inside, Constantine had just finished a bath; the tub was only recently fixed after Angela's return from hell had demolished it, and he was in the middle of drying off his hair with a towel. Of course, this was the exact moment when someone came a knock-knock-knockin' at his chamber door.

"Perfect," he muttered, loving the timing just ever so much. Who'd be here now, anyway? The top three people to ever visit him were dead, and half-breeds from heaven didn't come to visit.

Constantine threw his blue towel onto the floor. He made his way over to the bureau right outside the entrance to the bathroom, and took out a pair of boxers and a pair of black pants. He proceeded to slide them both on quickly, and just then the knock came again.

"All right, all right, Jesus," he said, loudly enough to be heard through the door, and moved towards the front door as he finished doing up his pants. The moment he was done, he walked to his door and reached for the doorknob. He opened the door a crack. "Angela," he said in surprise. He hadn't been expecting to see her there, that was for sure.

"John, hi," she smiled. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, and stepped back, pulling the door open.

Angela stepped inside, and only now did she realize that he was shirtless.

Now Angela wasn't exactly a naïve and innocent babe, but this was still awkward. Her gray eyes, at times green or blue depending on the lighting, glanced down and then back up.

"If this is a bad time…"

"No, it's fine," he assured her, and although a part of him felt like asking her whether she really _wanted_ him to put on a shirt, he decided not to say anything of the sort. "I'll just get a shirt on." John walked again towards his bureau, pulled out the left middle drawer—there were six drawers in total, three on the left, three on the right—and took out a white cotton shirt. He placed his left arm in the sleeve. "So what brings you here?" he asked, turning to face her as he got the second sleeve on.

"I'm going away for two weeks," she informed him, her right hand resting on her purse. "The Spear-"

"I don't need to hear anymore," and Angela didn't continue. John now had four buttons done up, and he continued on to the fifth.

"I just thought I'd tell you, so you didn't think I'd been kidnapped again, or that someone stole the Spear of Destiny."

"Well thanks for the info," Constantine said, and he finished buttoning up his shirt. "I'd offer you something to drink, but I don't really have much. Haven't really had much time to go out shopping."

"It's fine; I'm really not that thirsty."

John moved over to his kitchen table, pulling out a chair and sitting down. He motioned to the seat opposite himself, and she moved to sit down. "So, what time's your flight?"

Angela got herself settled in the chair, pulled it up to the table and placed the purse on its smooth surface.

"Early tomorrow, at seven. It seemed to me I'd be safer in the daylight."

"Probably," he agreed.

For a while, the two just talked. Not about anything in particular, really; a little bit of this, a little bit of that.

"When we were little, my sister and I would play a game with cards," Angela told John at one point. "She'd take a card or I would, and we'd guess what card the other had. We never guessed wrong. Sometimes our parents would try, but they never guessed right, and Izzy and I would just laugh. Izzy and I were never wrong with them, either. They always thought we peeked."

Constantine shared a story of his own.

"My parents never really did know what to do with me, but they weren't always bad. When I was a kid, really little, they'd take me out for drives out of the city, away from people. I don't really remember where we went, but I could almost forget what I saw every day when they did that; there weren't any half-breeds around to remind me."

He didn't mention his sister.

However, as always happened, all good things had an end. This was no exception. Although she'd come over at five, it was already 10:40. When John had turned on the lights because of the growing darkness outside, Angela had known she should leave. When he found them something to eat and drink, she'd known it even more. Now she it was a definite necessity. She just didn't feel comfortable carrying the Spear of Destiny around at night, and that was just what she'd have to do now.

"I have to go," Angela said at last, getting up to leave. "It's getting late, and I need to make sure I have everything together for tomorrow. Some sleep would be good too."

"Sure," John replied, and he got up and moved to the door, opening it. His jet-black hair had dried in a rather ruffled mess, although not that badly.

He turned to look at Angela, just as she was approaching. Once again, they ended up within mere inches of each other as she stepped forward, over to the door, she looking up at him as he looked down on her.

Angela said quietly, "So, I'll see you when I get back, then."

Just as quietly, John responded, "Sounds like a plan."

A moment in which the two did nothing but stare into or at each other's eyes and lips and faces came again. Angela explored Constantine's stoic features, the brown eyes, soft pink lips, and the bristles of a beard growing back. What was this, 10 o'clock shadow? He examined her expressive eyes and lipsticked red mouth, her cheeks with the permanent slight blush.

Angela turned her face away first, moving her right hand towards the edge of the door to pull it out farther.

Suddenly, Constantine grabbed that arm, pulling it gently away from the wood and towards him, up near their chests.

"John?" Angela asked softly, looking up at him again, her visage the picture of puzzlement.

_What the hell am I doing?_ he asked himself, but since when did he listen to himself, anyway?

He said nothing for a moment, only continued to stare at her.

And once more. "John?"

And this time he did do something. This time he angled his face down; this time he kissed her.

Angela's shock lasted only a moment before she returned the embrace in full. The arm he'd grabbed, she slid it down and replaced her mid-arm with her hand, linking their fingers together. Her left hand moved to his back, and his right did very much the same to hers, pulling her close.

As they pulled back for breath, their foreheads pressed together, Constantine said, just above a whisper, "I don't really want you to go."

"I don't really want to leave," she answered, her voice the same volume as his.

But she had to, and she knew it. So did he.

And so, she walked out the door.

"I'll see you when I get back?" she said, looking at him from the hall, her right hand resting on the purse slung over her shoulder.

Constantine stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe with the door obscuring a good part of him.

"It's a date."


	3. Angela's Insanity

**A/N: **O.O Whoa. Thank you guys UBER much for the warm reception. I didn't think my fic would hit it off so well. You guys KICK. And now… without further ado… A DANCING TURKEY! A turkey hops out and starts dancing, but is booed offstage Poor turkey… Ok, fine, here's…… THE NEXT CHAPPIE OF THE FIC! XD XD XD R&R! Tell me watcha think! Critiques encouraged!

**Me:** I'd like you all to meet my muse. Fred.  
**Fred:** Hi. (Waves)  
**Me:** Fred is nice sometimes. :D  
**Fred:** …  
**Me:** Fred's going to keep on giving me inspiration on this, and on my other fics too.  
**Fred:** …  
**Me:** I love you, Fred! XD …………………Hey Fred…  
**Fred: **Yeah?  
**Me: **My cat just scratched me and I'm bleeding.  
**Fred:** (Smirks) This is bad _how_?  
**Me: **(Pout) You're mean.

* * *

**Angela's Insanity**

It was 6:17 when Angela parked her car down the street from the bowling alley. She got out of the car, locked it, and started to walk towards the entrance. Although she didn't really show it, she was considerably shaken up; now that she could see what she'd spent her whole life denying, it was hard to get used to. It was even frightening. Especially when she'd had a close encounter on her trip, the silver amulet the dead priest Hennessy had once worn and her prayers only just saving her. Her gun, somehow affected by the aforementioned, had come in handy as well, a trick she was unsure how to reproduce.

It was a good thing she was a cop, else all of this might have driven her insane.

It was a good thing she was not Isabel.

After walking down to the building, Angela went inside and found her way upstairs easily. She was fast becoming very well acquainted with this place.

Angela knocked on John's door, another thing that she was fast becoming very well acquainted with doing. Before long, the door was opened, and by none other than John Constantine himself.

After lying in his bed for a while, John had gotten tired of being in the steadily increasing dark and had turned on the green-shaded lamps strewn around the apartment. It not being that cold, he'd taken off his coat and placed it on the coat rack across from the entrance to his lovely abode. Then, he'd taken out some relics he'd found in Beeman's place downstairs and had begun to inspect them, judging how much each would fetch at Papa Midnite's or at another broker's. A thick golden ring laden with a red stone, a black cross carved and painted underneath this gem, one just visible under the sheen of crimson. An ancient figurine of the Virgin Mary, about half a foot tall, the detail impeccable. A vial of the last Pope's blood. There were these and more.

He'd just been looking over the Mary figurine, holding it in his hands and examining it at every angle, when the knock on the door had come.

Constantine knew exactly who it was.

"John, hi," Angela said when he opened the door, and she smiled.

"Hi," he replied simply.

A moment passed.

"So, are you going to invite me in, or should I show my badge again?"

"Don't you need a warrant?" he asked, obviously amused, but he did step back and open the door out further.

"Is this an invitation?"

"Come on in," he told her, and he stepped back, turned, and walked over to the table, leaning back against it and facing her with his arms crossed.

Angela couldn't help but look at the carvings around the door before stepping into the apartment and closing the door behind herself. She walked over at an angle, to the windows at her left, before facing him fully.

"So how have your two weeks been?" she asked him, stopping about four feet from him. Her right thumb was hanging out of the pocket of her jeans, the fingers tapping the fabric, her left just hanging off to the side.

"The usual. Half-breeds and some cleanup."

"Oh." Angela swallowed. "It sounds… eventful."

John nodded towards her. "How about you? You get by all right?"

For a moment, she considered telling him about the half-breed that almost got her. About how terrifying it was to suddenly see them all, to see the horror visions he'd spent his whole life with and to have to deal with them, to act as if they weren't there, to put up with all this shit.

If anyone would know about this, it would be he. He'd grown up with it; he'd killed himself over it.

But Angela chose to mention none of it. She was a cop, she was fine. She'd deal with it alone.

"It was fine. The Spear of Destiny's safe now. At least, it should be."

"Good, but I didn't ask about the Spear." Constantine stood up, walked over to her and into her personal space. "I asked about you."

"I'm fine," she said firmly.

John gave a small smirk and a breath of a laugh, looked down and then back up. "Sure."

He moved away, back over to the table again, and pulled out a chair, turning towards Angela.

"John, this amulet you gave me," Angela began, pulling it away from the portion of her chest uncovered by her white, sleeveless shirt with the pleated shoulder straps. She walked towards the table, over to the chair opposite him, and sat. He followed her with his eyes, then turned towards her when she sat. "What does it do?"

"It protects you. It keeps the half-breeds from sensing you and focusing on you, and it keeps your own abilities in check, to a point. Unless you really want to be in this field, you wear it. And you don't want to be a part of the heaven-hell bullshit."

Well, that _would_ explain how that half-demon had only gone after her during her latest trip only when the amulet had been removed, and how putting it on had slowed him down. It also explained how Mammon had only been able to bring her to him with it off.

"What if I want to be a part of it? What if I want to tap into that part of myself?"

"Then you'd be insane."

Angela smiled lightly for a moment, and she moved her hands to the back of her neck, finding the clasp of the chain the amulet was on. She undid it and placed it on the table, her palm resting on it.

"Well then I guess I'm insane."

She was drawing her hand away when Constantine brought his down, directly atop hers, which was still atop the amulet.

"Don't."

Looking directly into his eyes, she spoke. "John, I can't do this. I can't sit here, knowing there are people being hurt, and knowing that I could do something about it if I really wanted to. I did that before; I did that to Isabel. I sat and pretended; I did _nothing_. I'm not doing that again. I'm a cop because I need to help people, this isn't any different."

"Yes, it _is._ You do this, you get killed-"

"-John-"

"You don't get shot and that's it. You get ripped apart, thrown from wall to ceiling to wall, made to scream from brutal agony until you beg to be sent to Hell. This isn't like being a cop, Angela. This is different. This is fighting with the damned and praying you get out alive."

"I'm stronger than you think." Angela flipped her hand, the one over the amulet, and took his hand in her own, squeezing it reassuringly. "I can do this."

"Yeah, so could Beeman and Hennessy and Midnite. We were all unstoppable once; there's a reason why two of them are dead now, the other a bartender playing neutral." He pulled his hand away. "Keep the amulet."

Angela slid her hand away too, but there was still an object remaining on the tabletop after she did so. "No."

"Fine," he said, and took the thing, pocketing it.

She stood up, her face close to expressionless as his. "I should go."

He motioned to the door with his hand.

Damn it, why the hell did she have to be so stubborn? She'd almost been killed when Mammon had tried to break through; it was more than possible that someone or something else would succeed. John Constantine would _not_ have another death on his hands, especially not hers.

He was already responsible for the deaths of countless people, including that of his own sister Cheryl and her entire family.

He couldn't stand having Angela on this list as well. Him and the Grim Reaper were already friends; he didn't want their relationship to grow to best buds.

She moved to the door, actually made it so far as to reach for the doorknob, but at the last moment, she turned. "I'm not going to die, John."

"Of course not. It's impossible for it to happen to you, right? You're impervious to harm." He stood up, stalked over to her again. His height advantage really did make him seem rather formidable, but not so much that she would even _consider_ backing down. "Guess what, lady, that's not the way this works."

"Oh, and who judges how it works, _you_? My sister _died_ for this; she _died_. The least I can do is-"

"This is not about your sister! This is about _you_!" He was getting angry now. Why didn't she _get _it? This was like talking to a brick wall, only the brick wall was better able to comprehend simple facts like "Death equals bad."

She stared up at him fiercely, her eyes boring into his. "Look, _you_ told me there was no turning back, remember? You told me once I could see then, they could see me."

"And that's why I gave you the amulet. This isn't a game, Angela. People die, and they die painfully."

"Don't you think I _know_ that? My sister, you, your friends; I've seen it. Every week in my department, I've seen it, whether it was a cop or a perp. I've _caused _it; I've killed more people than I _want_ to remember, and do you want to know why? Because of these damn powers of mine! If I can't control them, what am I supposed to do? Should I just continue on with my life, shooting to kill every time, without even thinking about it? I'm tired of being stuck between worlds I don't understand!"

John stood silent, looking at her, his expression unreadable.

"Fine," he said at last. "You want to learn, fine. But when you get in over your head, don't come crawling to me."

"I won't," she answered firmly, but whether she meant that she would not get in over her head or come to Constantine for help, it was impossible to tell. Perhaps it was really a little bit of both.

After basically glaring at each other for another few seconds, Angela turned and opened the door, John stepping back to accommodate. Just as she stepped over the threshold, he spoke.

"Tomorrow, three o'clock. Be here."

It was Sunday the following day. She wouldn't be working.

"Thank you," she said simply, and she was gone.

* * *

When Angela drove herself home that night, she felt strange, almost as if the streets and alleyways were talking to her, whispering their stories in some unspoken, unheard, subtle language. She couldn't make it out, couldn't even be sure it was there; but she _felt_ it, and wasn't that enough? 

Did she really want this? Maybe John was right; maybe she should just wear the amulet and pretend again. Maybe it would all go away, like a really bad day or a serious case of indigestion.

But no, she owed Isabel this. She _owed_ her this; she owed the world this. There was a reason why she was such a "powerful psychic," and it wasn't so she could ignore that part of herself entirely.

Besides, after all she'd seen, she would not turn away from it now.

* * *

Late that night, or very early the next morning, depending on how one looked at it, Constantine lay in a pair of gray sweatpants under the covers in his bed, examining the amulet in the streetlights that shone through the windows. 

Back in the old days, when Midnite had fought, when Hennessy had been able to listen to the ether, when he himself had felt near invincible, when there'd been so many more of them… Back then, none of them would ever have considered using the thing. The evil had seemed to be everywhere—it still did, oftentimes—and they'd fought, they'd all fought for their own reasons. And somehow, it had worked. They were an unstoppable force for good.

But then it had all fallen apart. Then, three toddlers and four of the "crusaders for good" had been slaughtered, but only after an eternity of torture in hell itself while still alive. Back on Earth, the torture was continued until they were brutalized almost beyond recognition. Until they were dead. Those two little girls, Sarah and Beth. That little boy, George. Emmanuel, Sandrine, Casey, and Cane, the four of them, gone.

The bastards responsible were deported, their fucking sorry asses sent straight back to Hell, but it wasn't worth the cost. To say it hardly felt worth it was a blatant lie; it felt like trading a huge treasure chest of gold and diamonds for a dirt clod, multiplied by a million-fold.

Father Hennessy was almost driven insane by what he heard and found there, at this murder scene; his moderate drinking, to keep the voices at bay, got worse and worse. He started to wear the amulet, and although his drinking calmed down after a time, he kept his involvement in the field at a minimum. Constantine and Midnite kept fighting, Beeman providing the information. Then Midnite swore the Oath of Neutrality, opened up the Haven for the damned and blessed, the half-breeds on Earth.

But Constantine couldn't stop; how could he? He hadn't sent enough of the evil, rule-breaking bastards back to the shithole they came from; he hadn't saved enough innocent lives. He was still damned.

And so, Beeman stayed with John and gave him information and enchanted items, for a price, of course, and a few others of their kind were scattered about the city, a great multitude scattered around the world. Midnite kept the bar, and traded relics. Father Hennessey barely worked, although he did do some exorcisms. But the tough cases were always referred to John, who was in truth stronger than him in the business, always had been. Perhaps John's desperation and downright terror of Hell really did provide strength; at least they had some use. They only served to keep him alive and miserable.

All of them maintained their Balance, in their own way.

But never again would things be like they were.

John Constantine put the amulet on his bedside table and closed his eyes. He tried his best to sleep.

* * *

**Vagrant:** WOOOOT a reviewer from Leah! I am very glad that you like it. . I was kinda frustrated at the movie, but then again, I was more glad that they ended it the way they did. Too many movies end with a guy and a girl kissing, and I liked what they did with it in Constantine. 'Sides, all the more for us fanfic writers to have fun with. XD THANKS SO MUCH for the http/ thing. I wouldn't have noticed that otherwise. (Gives yousa the Constantine soundtrack) Thank ya! . 

**kissed-luck:** Thanks on all counts. I'm glad to know I got those down, and I'm very glad you enjoyed. 'Member though, if I ever mess up, feel free to point it out!

**ffgeek:** (Blush) So many compliments! Thank you! I want to be a writer, so knowing that I actually write well is a very nice comfort. And you read all that I had up on me site? O.O Wow. Thank you! Thanks for telling me 'bout the typos, too. I fixed the "wad," and I'll try to keep my out for 'em. As I update me chap's on here (this WILL catch up with me site at some soon point) do feel free to review on here and tell me what you think, even though I know you already read 'em all. Reviews are always appreciated! .

**Daydreamer:** Kisses are fun. . I'm definitely glad you enjoyed. And I shall try to im you prolly on the morrow, if I'm online. I have hw I'm putting off right now. :P

**rusty: **Wow, thank you! I'm REALLY glad you liked it so much!I shall do my best to keep my fic up to thy standards. If it ever slips, feel free to tell me. I'll fix it to the best of me ability.


	4. A Little Card Trick

**A/N: **EEEEEEE THERE IS A CONSTANTINE NOVEL VERSION! 'Tis based offa the movie! . Some of the Latin is spelled wrong, and there are some minor changes, but so far, I like. Anyone wants a refresher on the movie, get it. 'Tis only 7 bucks, and it's basically the same thing with more added and minor things tweaked. I think some of the dialogue was probably based off of the original script, as there's more than in the movie.

**A/N2: **Guys, I'm 16 as of yesterday! WOOT! (Throws a party with gift bags of anti-demon relics, holy water, fake ornate, Constantine-type lighters, and other Constantine paraphernalia). For my birthday, make sure to R&R, critiques encouraged. :-P

**A/N3: IMPORTANT-PROLOGUE WAS JUST UPDATED, AS IN ACTUALLY PUT UP. THAT'S THE NEW CHAPPIE! So go there and R&R pplz:P As usual, critique encouraged:P**

**Fred:** You're obsessed, you realize…  
**Me:** So?  
**Fred:** It's sad.  
**Me:** Hey, you give me inspiration for the fic.  
**Fred:** I could stop…  
**Me:** You know that threat gets old. -.-"

* * *

**A Little Card Trick**

Angela was running late. From oversleeping to Duck escaping the apartment when she went out on her morning jog to seeing things she was very much _not_ used to during said jog, she was _not_ having a good morning.

Then, at 2:35, just as she was moving out the door, she got a call on her house phone. After a moment's deliberation—if it was really important, couldn't they just call her cell phone—she decided to answer it. She moved over to her computer desk, or, more accurately, laptop desk, right beside the apartment's exit and entrance, pushed into the corner. There, there was not only her silver, Apple™ laptop, but a printer, a fax machine with phone coming off of the side of the desk, a framed photograph of Angela and an old friend, a cup of pencils and pens, papers, a plastic pig, two mini American flags, file folders, a ceramic bowl, a cardboard box put far off to the side, a white lamp in the far left corner, and loads more odds and ends. Behind the desk, there was even a large, beautiful, and vibrant painting in hues of reds and browns of great houses of ancient Japan at sunset. However, on the desk, there was also one more very important thing: a silver portable phone, and it was to this object that she moved.

"Hello?" she said after picking up the phone, using "Dodson" as a greeting only on her cell phone. It was none other than Detective Weiss, checking in on her, making sure she was up for work the following day. There wasn't any shame in taking off some more time if she needed it, he told her.

Angela assured him she was fine and would be at work bright and early the following day. Plus, she said, it would do her good to get back to her normal routine, although that was really the exact opposite of what she was doing. She didn't tell him that last part, though.

Finally, she got off the phone and managed to make it out of her home, although she only narrowly managed to stop Duck's latest attempt at a wild vacation in the streets of L.A. _Why_ this cat had a death wish at the wheels of a car, Angela really didn't know.

With an accident on the main road—why did the place feel so strange, what was she feeling: a recent ascension to heaven, or a descent to hell?—she found herself at the Bowling Alley at about 3:20. Inside, there were already various groups of children, teenagers, and adults, all taking advantage of the weekend to bowl. It was a place to hang out and have fun, after all, and although some viewed it as cheesy, it was cheaper than the rest. And it was still enjoyable.

Word of Beeman's murder had not reached the ears of the public but had been cleaned up in private. Hence, people had no qualms in continuing to come.

Angela paid all of these people no mind but instead moved swiftly up the steps and to Constantine's door. She knocked, as per usual, but this time he was at the door in less time than was typical.

"You're late," were the first words out of his mouth to her.

"Sorry," she said, walking into the apartment as he walked over to the table. He sat down in the chair closest to the oven. She closed the door behind herself and then began to walk over. "There was an accident, traffic." She took off her black jacket, a button-up v-neck meant to be worn in the business world, and placed it on the back of the chair opposite him, revealing the olive green tank top she wore underneath. She sat down herself after she'd done this.

"Could you tell if anyone died?" he asked her, and looked down and reached into his outer coat pocket, taking a small, rectangular blue and white box out, one that had words on it and almost fit into the palm of his hand. She looked at it curiously; it seemed awfully familiar, but she couldn't quite recognize it with his hand covering it up.

Angela's hands were wringing each other absentmindedly in her lap, but when she looked down and her hair fell in her face, one moved to push the strands behind her ear when she looked back up at John.

"Someone did, I think. I couldn't really tell… how many, or where they went, but someone-someone did."

"Most can't tell how many or where they end up," he informed her. "You'd have to go to Hell and see yourself for that."

That topic of conversation was now over, though; it was time to get back to the agenda.

John opened the box, and tipped it so that a stack of playing cards slid out. There didn't seem to be anything special about them; it was just a normal, convenience store bought deck, an intricate, blue pattern placed on the backs of every single one.

Placing the box off to the side, he took the deck and put it in the middle of the table.

"You can sense death; you can even get to Hell if you're submerged long enough. Now, we're going to get back to the basics." Constantine took the first card of the deck, held it in front of his eyes and took a good look at it before angling his dark brown eyes towards her once more. "What card am I holding?" He looked back at the card.

Angela looked at him incredulously. "What card all you holding?" she repeated.

"What card am I holding?" His eyes didn't leave the card.

Angela blinked. Was she supposed to know this? She had no idea. All she could see was the back of a playing card.

Although she hadn't been expecting this, somehow it made sense. This really _was_ rudimentary, and she _had_ been able to do it with her sister and parents, hadn't she? And that was when she was only a little girl. How hard could it be?

Very hard was apparently the answer, because she had absolutely no idea what the card Constantine held in his hand _was_. "Four of hearts," she said, figuring that guess was as good as any other.

He said nothing, only turned the card for her to see it. A black joker. Not even close.

John placed the joker card upside-down next to the deck and drew another card. He looked at it, but of course didn't let her see. "What card is it?"

And again, she had absolutely no idea.

She took a deep breath, blinked and focused on the card. She _willed_ herself to see it, to see beyond the backing.

_Well, I know it's not that joker_, she told herself, but then again, what good did that do her? There was still another one in the deck, wasn't there?

"I don't know, a queen of spades," she tried.

He turned the card, a three of clubs.

He put that card down, drew another one.

"What card?"

She guessed, and she guessed wrong. Again and again, she guessed wrong.

She began to get very, very frustrated.

"This is ridiculous," she said after she'd missed about twenty cards in a row. Her right forefinger was meanwhile tapping away at her thigh, the physical extension of her aggravation.

The latest card, a king of hearts, he put in the pile of spent cards, but he did not draw a fresh one. Instead, he kept his hand there.

"Don't try to see through the card, don't try to guess. Don't try to rationalize which cards were drawn and which weren't. Just try to look through my eyes, see the card like I see it. Don't even focus on the card. Just see what I see."

Well that sounded far easier said than done.

Angela nodded. "Okay." She'd try.

John took the two piles, shuffled the cards together. Again, he placed the full deck in the middle of the table and drew the top card.

"What card?" His eyes were fixed solely on it.

Closing her eyes, she tried to do what he'd told her to. See through his eyes, _his eyes_.

But there was only blackness. Only the backs of her eyelids.

She tried to picture what he'd be seeing right now, tried to picture her profile opposite him, the windows and open wooden shutters behind her. Even the water coolers bottles, off to the side in his peripheral vision. And first and foremost, the card. His hand holding the card.

Damn it, what was the card!

Angela placed her elbow on the table, resting her forehead on the thumb and the inner side of the forefinger on her right hand.

The card, the card, that damn card!

Hearing "Angela," while in such a state of concentration startled her, and the sudden touch on her left hand, at that moment resting on the table, did so even more. It was in this moment that she got a flash of something, a flash of, well, just what she'd been trying so desperately to see. The image was different than what she'd been imagining, the angles different, her position different. And the card, the card was right there, clear as day.

Could it be… could she have seen?

She lifted her face and eyes slowly, hair partially obscuring her face.

"Nine of hearts?" she said, her voice soft and full of wonder.

The corners of his mouth only just upturned, his right hand still resting on her left, John turned the card around. Sure enough, there were nine normally beating organs associated with love on that card, not counting the ones in the very corners.

"Good," he said quietly, and drew another card. His hand stayed atop hers. "What card?"

Angela closed her eyes, instinctively tried to clear her mind. She'd done it once, she could do it again.

Just as she was beginning to give up, she cocked her head, and it came to her.

"Two of spades." And she was right.

After guessing correctly twice more in this way, John withdrew his hand.

"Now try it without the physical contact."

So, was that it? Was a stronger psychic bond the only reason for that handholding? Somehow, she doubted it, although it was no doubt a large part.

Trying to see through his eyes without any sort of physical contact really did prove to be a task more difficult than initially anticipated. She was getting nowhere. Again, all she could see was the very familiar sight of her inner eyelids.

"Come on, Angela. You saw before, you can see again," John urged.

She tried. Damn it, did she try. But she just couldn't seem to get it. Sometimes it seemed as if she was getting close, but then her mind would back away at the very last second.

_Focus, focus, **focus**!_she told herself, and for some reason, she did. Her eyes snapped open, and it seemed she could see with two pairs of peepers at once, seeing him from her own perspective and seeing herself from his. Seeing the card from both sides. It was like having 6-dimensinoal vision, able to see from all directions all at once.

Perhaps, in this one instance, her frustration had been good, clouding some of her senses just enough for this "special sight" of hers to kick in. Or perhaps it was just blind luck. But Angela nonetheless got it.

"Good," John said, pleased at her progress despite himself. "Now try it with your eyes open the entire time. Try to cut down the time it takes you. Don't think about it; just do it. _Know_ you can."

Strangely enough, she began to get the hang of it. There was a card or two or five that she couldn't get at first, but it was as if a valve had been opened, the water flooding. It was like when Constantine had held her down beneath the water in the bathtub and sent her to Hell, but more subtle.

After she'd gotten over fifteen in a row, Constantine stopped drawing cards. Instead, he took the two piles and began to reshuffle them, but spoke to her all the while. "All right, we're going to try something a little different. Remember when I told you to ignore the card? Well ignore that. Now, I want you to focus on the card, solely on the card. Nothing else. But don't try to see through it, or picture it. Just take in the card as a whole; _what is the card?_"

Having completed his shuffling, he placed the deck back onto the table, but off to the side. Beside it, he placed four cards, side-by-side and upside-down. He pointed to the second card from her left. "What card is it?"

Damn, just as she was getting a handle on one thing, he sprung something else on her.

_Focus on the card, focus on the card._ Angela looked at the thin piece of cardboard, stared at it till her eyes burned and protested by turning on the water main. She blinked and tried again. Nothing. Still, she couldn't figure out which card it was.

_See it from all sides_, she told herself. _It's a whole, all part of the same thing. What's the whole thing?_

After trying to figure out the one side she didn't know, Angela tried something different. She tried to take it all in at once, instead of processing bit by bit, like John had said for her to do. Maybe, just maybe, he knew what he was talking about. Maybe, just maybe, she could force her mind to work that way.

This section went with that one, that part went with this part. All part of the same thing, unlike the other cards, unique. It all fit together like a jigsaw puzzle, and she'd seen all the pieces. Which one was missing?

And then, she saw it. This _one _card had taken her over five minutes to picture, but she saw it.

She looked up at John, away from the card. "Ace of spades." He took the card, flipped it over, and there, plain as day, was an ace of spades.

John pointed to the card furthest to her left. "This one."

Angela tried looking at it the same way as the last one, and after a minute, she got it. "Joker, the red one." He flipped it: the red Joker.

The next two, a two of diamonds and a seven of diamonds, she guessed correctly as well.

Before long, it was taking her barely any time at all to figure out which card was which.

All of a sudden, he switched tactics, after she'd made out another set of four. He picked up a card from the deck, held it before him with its back to her. "What card am I holding?"

Immediately, she tried looking through his eyes. It took her a bit, about a quarter of a minute, but she got a flash of the card. "King of clubs."

He showed her the card, proving her correct, and put it down. He picked up another, and did the same thing, refreshing her memory on how to do it this way. This time, she got it faster. After one more card, he spoke.

"This time, don't look through me. This time, look just at the card."

He picked up another card, kept his eyes on it.

Angela tried, tried to look _only_ at the card, but she couldn't help it. Half of her went one way, to him and what he saw, the other to the card. In her mind, both images merged for an image that seemed to now be in twelve dimensions instead of six. A wave of dizziness hit her, and she wavered in her seat, righting herself by grabbing onto the edge of the table.

"Six-six of clubs," she breathed, rather unnerved. John put the card down, right side up. She'd guessed right.

"That's enough for today," he said, and stood.

Angela nodded and did the same. It was almost seven; they'd been at this for over three hours.

Both made their way over to the door, Constantine talking as they did so.

"Tomorrow, stick to your desk. After work, call me; if I'm not there, leave a message. I'll pick you up."

"Why?" she asked as he opened the door to let her out, turning her head to face him.

"We're going to dinner."

* * *

**Vagrant:** (Fred waves, and I hop up and down in glee) Wooot, I'm getting Angela down! Thank thee for telling me! . 

**kissed-luck:** OO Whoa, I didn't think it was that good! I'm so happy you liked it so much! I think I might hold off on updating that site until this one catches up some more, though, but feel free to tell me what you think about the chapters as I put them up on here!

**Daydreamer:** Go kisses, it's your birthday, we're gonna party like it's your birthday… :P And I'm STILL putting off hw. O.o

**Danielle:** Thank you! I shall.


	5. An Innocent Murderer

**A/N1:** Woot, here we are, another chappie! Hope y'all enjoy! (Pokes all) I didn't get any reviews for my new prologue though, guys! ;-) If you could review on that as well as on this chappie in the reviews for this chappie, that's be awesome. 'Member, critique encouraged!

**A/N2 : **This is an uber short chappie, uber short. As in, MINI. Just over a page.But I had to do it. It's part of the next chapipe on me site, but I like it better as a stand-alone. Don't worry, to make up for the shortness, I'll be quicker in updating the next chap. :P

**Constantine: (**Matter of factly) I'm not in this one.  
**Me:** Yeah… so…?  
**Constantine:** (Gets a piece of gum and chews) It's appreciated.  
**Me:** …Why…?  
**Constantine:** (Gives me a look before walking away)  
**Me:** … (Sweatdrop)

**

* * *

**

An Innocent Murderer

Of course, by dinner, Constantine did not mean a date. He didn't even mean dinner. No, he meant something quite different: he meant going out into the world and becoming acquainted with seeing half-breeds. He meant getting used to what she saw and felt and learning how to control it.

That was why he didn't want her going out, doing her job as a detective, and not being able to handle all that she would now see. Especially now that she no longer wore the amulet, and especially not after he himself had turned the dial on her abilities further into "on mode." Once you started seeing, it was difficult to stop, to even slow down, especially if you barely knew how to control any of it. It was like trying to type wearing mittens one size too big. Maybe you'd get lucky and succeed, but chances were, you'd fail, and you would fail miserably.

Unluckily enough, there was no paperwork to do when Angela got to the office. Instead, there was a fresh homicide, and Angela was ordered to go to the scene. Of course, she _could_ have said that her sister's death was still fresh in her mind, that she required some more time…

But she would not lie, and she wouldn't sacrifice her career either. But most of all, this was her job. This was what she'd signed on to do. She wouldn't leave some murdered person out there and not try to help them.

And so she went.

"Alicia Bennet, 26, lives four blocks down." Weiss was telling her as they walked over to the alleyway where the body had been dumped. "She was found behind the dumpster, wrapped in old blanket, fully clothed and nothing stolen. Been there from 8 to 12 hours. She was stabbed twice, bled to death."

"Did you order a rape kit?" Angela asked without missing a beat, walking towards the site—why were there _always_ spectators, even when the scene of the crime was a secluded alleyway—and was about to lift the police tape when something caught her eye. She stopped short.

"As soon as she gets to the M.E.—Angie?" Weiss stopped as well, the hand of his right arm, the one that was _not_ in a sling, frozen on the police tape.

But Angela barely noticed. Instead, her eyes were focused on one particular person in the crowd, a person who was not a person. A half-breed, and not one from up above with the ability to soar over tall buildings in a single flap.

Was that… it had to be. That was the bastard who'd "influenced" the killer, wasn't it?

Weiss, her partner, walked up behind her. "Detective? What is it?" He looked in the direction of her eyes, but he couldn't see a demon. All he could see was a kid, late teens, early twenties, with shoulder-length black hair, a tan, an old leather jacket, and black, baggy pants with chains and bondage straps. "Detective," he said quietly, so that no one else could overhear, "we don't profile."

Angela barely heard him, but somehow, she managed a response. "I'm not," she said quietly, haltingly, her eyes fixed on the half-breed. "I just… think he might have… seen something."

The half-breed had turned his head now, and he was facing her as surely as she was facing him.

He gave her a hellish grin, quite literally, before turning and walking away.

Angela couldn't help it; she began to walk after him. She didn't think, not about the consequences, not about anything. She knew they couldn't hold him and that she might be disciplined, but she didn't care. She knew that, in all likelihood, they couldn't even take him in for questioning. All she knew was that this bastard was somehow responsible, and even if they couldn't hold him, even if nothing could be done to him because the of the Balance, he could at least point them in the direction of the killer. And maybe, even with the Balance, she could somehow stop him from doing this to anyone else.

No wonder Pride was one of the 7 Deadly Sins.

_That's against the rules, Angela…_ a voice rang in her head, a voice creepily similar to that of Constantine's, but she ignored it.

She couldn't let this jackass go around "influencing" rape and murder and only God and the Devil knew what else.

"Stop, police!" she called out, speeding up as she got closer and closer to the half-breed. It was taking every ounce of self-control she had to not draw her weapon. Weiss followed closely behind, now having given up on trying to make her see reason. There were how many other people here, besides policemen? At least fifteen, most of them now staring at Angela. Why did she single out the wanna-be Goth?

At least this way, he could keep his eye on the whole affair, make sure it didn't go too far. She was his partner and his friend. He wasn't about to let her go rushing off alone.

But… had her sister's suicide really screwed Angela up this much? Was it even safe for her to be in the field?

Like the good, innocent citizen, the half-breed didn't run. Instead he turned, giving the two detectives a charming, innocent, yet shameful smile. "I'm sorry, did I disturb anything over there? I just saw everyone crowding, and the police tape and…" He shrugged. "Well, you know."

Only Angela saw him for what he really was; she couldn't stop. It flashed in and out of focus, true, but mainly in. She saw the hell-fiend underneath his human mask, and she was disgusted. He had to be the influencer. Why else would he be there? To see his work first-hand, no doubt. She couldn't picture any demon glorifying in the victory of another.

Sick bastard. If this was what the Balance was, it didn't deserve to exist. It didn't _deserve_ to be maintained, not while innocent people like this Alicia Bennet were brutalized and murdered.

Before Angela could say a word, Weiss spoke up from behind her.

"I'm sorry, maybe we have you confused for someone else." Angela gave him a look, part outrage, part disbelief. Couldn't he _see_…? "Did you see anything here last night, around midnight?"

The half-breed offered an apologetic grin. "Sorry, I was fast asleep. Have to stay sharp for the day, you know." Only Angela caught his eyes flicking over to her.

Angela struggled to control herself. "We'd like you to come in for questioning, just in case."

He blinked, giving an appearance of innocence and bemusement. "I'm sorry, but must I really? I really can't right now, and I really have to go. Maybe some other time." The half-breed offered a wan smile and began to turn, to walk away.

Damn it, what could she do? She could take him in and be fired; as if she'd even be _able_ to take him in.

"Hey, kid!" Weiss called, and again, Angela was surprised to hear his voice. "What's your name, address, number? Just so we can check back with you in case you remember anymore."

Why not, right? He'd long ago learned to trust Angela's instincts. Maybe she was right in suspecting this kid. Besides, he could feel that there was something not quite right about him.

Only Angela saw the half-breed's leering grin, the rotting, despicable flesh underneath his façade. "Why sure, I'd be happy to." And although she didn't know his motives, or even if he was telling the truth, Angela took out her notepad, fighting the urge to draw her gun.

"What is it, then?" she asked, "You know, just in case?"

And he gave it to them, and strangely enough, as Angela would soon find, he told them the truth. But she had absolutely no idea why he would. The half-breed Dameon, however, knew very well why he was doing this: he was bored. He was tired of this whispering in people's ears shit. He yearned for an opportunity to do _more_ than simply influence, and this was it. Who was going to stop him? Daddy Devil wasn't omniscient, and oftentimes, he turned a blind eye to these sorts of antics anyway. He _was_ the Lord of all Evil or whatnot.

After he was gone, Weiss turned to his partner, who he could tell was still very much unnerved. He was no longer wondering what the hell she'd been thinking. "You know, I think you were right. There was definitely something very off about that kid."

* * *

**Vagrant:** Nope, you're right. Very necessary to the plot. Sorry it didn't have much more action, but this fic kinda moves slow, the beginning is kinda expository. Getting into the plot here, though. I hope you like nonetheless.

**ann: **Thank you, on all counts! . Hopefully, the rest of me fic shall be as good as it has been so far. Munches on cake and offers yousa some

**heraldtalia: **Thank yousa on all counts! . I'm glad I got John down. Actually, I find him easier than Angela, strangely enough. O.o And I shall try to get you your angst, but I wouldn't worry if I were you. I'm a queen of angst. Hopefully, my prologue might sate you for a bit, but if you really want an extremely angsty Constantine fic and don't mind NC-17 for sexual content, go to me site and read "For I Have Sinned." It's a one-shot with John. Tell me what you think if you do read it!

**kissed: **Thank ya, and thank ya!

**Slvrbldrain:** Thank ya! . I'm glad the card bit came out well. I really enjoyed writing it. Hoping yousa like the rest as well!

**MP: **Thank you! .

**HoD:** Thank you! Dontcha worry, I shall. :D

**Vagrant (again :P):** Thank you! .

**Danielle:** Thank ya! Technically, it's NOT really dinner tho'… but it's the terminology dear old Constantine uses. He's special.


	6. The Truth Behind the World

**A/N1: TO CHASTINE WRITERS:** First off, this A/N is NOT a flame towards Chastine writers, in general or specifically, not an insult or a blow or anything, but it's my strong, **_STRONG_** suggestion/advice for them (and it's not rude, I promise). You don't like it, I'm sorry, and I hope no one stops reading my fic because of it. Here it is:  
Chastine can ONLY HAPPEN if either a) the movie never happened and it's an AU or b) John and Angela break up (in a **_BELIEVABLE FASHION_**), and preferably (**_STRONG_** preferably here) NOT because John wants to be with Chas. -.-" .Either way, it would take A LOT OF TIME passing in the fic—it would NOT happen instantaneously—, NO ANGELA BASHING (that just… no), thought (most likely a good amount), and a LOT of attention to character. If you have to make it OOC, even just a tad, for it to work, don't do it. The point is they're IN CHARACTER. --" Otherwise, you're sticking in your own characters (based STRONGLY off of the movie ones) into the movie world. In that case, it's not Chaz/Constantine, it's Quasi-Chas/Quasi-Constantine, which is just bad fanfiction.  
Now I don't necessarily like Chastine. I admit it. But notice how I'm not saying that it CAN'T be done. I'm sure in the right hands it could be. I have just yet to see it, and from what I've observed, people (for the most part) don't like to take the time and care necessary for it but just do it because it's "hot." Please, I beg you Chastine writers, if you must, write it WELL, not just for kicks with no attention to all the aforementioned unless it's meant to be Humor.  
And, as always, **to ALL writers**… grammar, detail, and personalities. Pay attention to all three, not just dialogue, thoughts, please. And proofread, proofread, proofread, or get a beta. If those aren't right, it just makes the fic SO hard to read.  
Thank you for listening to my rant. XD

**A/N2:** Now that that's out of the way… hi guys. :D What's up? Here it is, as promised, the next chapter. Oh, this one was fun… . . Enjoy! Critique encouraged! Be sure to R&R!

**A/N3: WARNING** Definitely a make out scene in this chapter, guys. Just thought I'd warn y'all, just in case someone's not comfortable with it. This one doesn't go too far, so it's still under M and you don't have to go to my site to read it in full.

**Chas:** A little snippy, aren't we?  
**Me:** Oh hush, you slave. -.-"  
**Chaz:** I'm not a slave!  
**John:** He's my apprentice.  
**Me:** Your dead apprentice.  
**Chas:** We dead prefer half-angel.  
**Me:** We living prefer pizza... >.>

* * *

**The Truth Behind the World**

That night at nine, when she got home, Angela was still steaming, not to mention anxious to the point of paranoia. She'd seen them everywhere, walking down the street, just around the corner, through windows and past parked cars; the fact that a good three-fourths of these spottings were just her imagination playing tricks on her didn't really make her feel any better.

And the whole time, she'd been able to sense her surroundings, feel that there'd been a killing in this alley, a brawl in this bar, a car crash there. It was insane, and she hadn't been able to figure out how to make it all stop. She still couldn't.

_How_ had she let that bastard get away? _How_? She should've found some way to take him in, to keep him from causing harm to anyone else.

_And how exactly would I have done that?_ she asked herself.

_Somehow. Somehow, damn it!_

Isabel would have found a way.

To top it all off, driving home, Angela had only narrowly missed getting into an accident, having been so preoccupied with her thoughts, the half-breed, and the case that she'd run a red light. That wasn't exactly what she'd needed at that moment.

Once in the house, Angela moved immediately to her cream-colored couch, sat down, and took out her hair elastic and slid off her shoes, looking to relax, watch some television, and try to figure out the whole mess in her head. This was when she remembered: she had to call John, and surprisingly enough, she didn't really want to. She didn't really _want_ to see or talk to anyone right then. At all.

Well, at least this way, she'd learn to hone her powers more. At least this way, the good she wanted to do would be that much easier to achieve. Maybe she'd even be able to get rid of the half-breeds influencing atrocities like murder, or at least hold her own.

Although she really didn't want to, although she was physically and mentally exhausted, Angela stood up and walked over to her computer desk—right beside her television, only a plush, high-backed chair stacked with books standing between the two. There, she picked up the portable phone. Next to her laptop was a paper with his number scribbled on it, and Angela dialed it, not that she really _needed _this written reminder. She practically had this particular phone number memorized by heart already.

He wasn't there when she called, and Angela got the answering machine. "You've reached John Constantine. If it's important, leave a message. If not, don't waste my time." The corners of Angela's mouth tipped upwards; typical John. Blunt and succinct.

"John, it's Angela. You told me to call when I got home, so… I'm calling. I guess I'll see you when I see you… Bye."

Angela hung up the phone.

About an hour later, she was falling asleep on the couch, the television on and droning off some news program. Demons, nightmares, and Izzy burning and screaming danced on the outskirts of her conscious mind. A knock on the door woke her instantly, and she shot up, her hand instinctively moving towards her thigh. However, her holster wasn't there; she'd taken it off and placed it on the desk. The rest of her outfit was the same, though; she still wore the long, black pants and short-sleeved, navy blue shirt she'd worn underneath her coat to work.

Her heart pounding, adrenaline rushing through her veins, Angela forced herself to calm as she regained her wits. It was just a knock on the door, most likely John. Although her mind was muddled, she did have _some_ clue as to what was going on.

But there was no way of _knowing_ that it was John, and so, walking over to the door in her white socks, she took her gun. Nor did she open the door right away. "Who is it?" she called.

"Constantine," the voice on the other side of the door answered, and again, despite herself, she couldn't help but smile.

Her heart beating at a more normal rate, her breath slowing, her mind waking up, Angela opened the door.

"What took you so long?" she asked and stepped aside, allowing him to walk in.

"I had business to take care of."

John noticed the gun in Angela's hand. He would have commented, but just then, Duck ran up with a mew, rubbing up against the man's leg.

That reminded her…

"Duck! I forgot to feed you, didn't I?" she said to the dark gray cat, interrupting anything Constantine would have said, and she bent down, picked him up, and carried him to the kitchen, placing the gun back on her desk as she moved past it. "Make yourself comfortable," she called over her shoulder to John, and she poured some Purina™ Cat Chow into the cat's bowl. Poor kitty; what would Isabel think knowing Angela was forgetting about her cat?

After petting the cat that was munching happily away on the off-white tile floor, she moved back to her living room, walking through two doorways, no doors, and past a large cross on a white wall. John was sitting on the crème-colored, Victorian style chair with wooden legs and frame beside her computer desk, waiting for her. He stood up.

"Ready to go?"

Again, she considered not going. She considered saying she was too tired, thinking of Isabel, anything. She walked over to the couch and her sneakers, sitting down to slip them on and kill time. Her hair, a half wavy, half straight mess on account of the pony tail she'd kept it in all day, fell to either side of her face, and at least twice, she had to shove strands back behind her ears. It gave her more time to think up a reason, a real reason, as to why she was unable to go with John. When she was done, she looked up and spoke, standing up.

She'd made up her mind, her decision as inevitable as a gloomy, rainy day on at least one of the birthdays in a person's life.

"What are we waiting for? Come on; let's go." Angela grabbed her coat off of the arm of the clean, white couch, and putting it on, she walked over to him. "So where exactly are we going?"

John could tell there was something off with her, something not quite right. He knew her well enough to know that, by now. At least he was pretty sure he did.

But he did not ask. If it were important, she'd tell him. Hopefully. Besides, he had a feeling that he knew what was troubling her. Seeing the things she was seeing, after spending so long a time in denial… it would be hard on anybody.

And he was probably about to make it all that much worse, but she wanted to know. And John had never believed in gradual immersion.

"Ever hear of Midnite?"

Actually, she had. Around the precinct, she hadn't just heard of the infamous Constantine; Midnite and his establishment, one located in one of the seedier parts of Los Angeles, held some notoriety as well.

She looked up at him, their bodies once again very, very close to one another.

"Isn't that a nightclub?" Her face radiated confusion. Why were they going to a _nightclub_?

"Yeah, but one where only a special few can get in."

"Special few?" Angela had a feeling she knew what he meant, but she just wanted to be sure…

"Half-breeds and psychics, Angela," he elaborated. "Half-breeds and psychics."

Although it wouldn't do much good, she made sure to have her gun and badge on her as they left.

In front of her apartment building was the taxi, and Angela got in the passenger-side seat, John in the driver's seat.

As Constantine pulled out onto the road, she decided to ask some questions. "John, just what should I be expecting at this place? A bunch of plastered half-breeds?"

"Actually," he answered, his eyes flicking over to her from the street, "that's exactly what you should expect."

Well that… was actually rather pathetic. But it came nowhere near explaining to Angela just what she would witness at the nightclub. It came nowhere near preparing Angela for it.

After pulling into a spot across the street from their destination, Constantine put the car into park. Angela unbuckled her seatbelt and was about to open her door when he did another very "John thing" to do: he leaned in, and as usual, Angela tensed up in anticipation of a kiss that never came.

Memories of their one and only such embrace rushed to both of them, but both refused to acknowledge them. Instead, John put the Celtic amulet round her neck, just as he'd done when he'd gone after Balthazar.

Angela made to protest, but he spoke first, his eyes fixed on hers.

"There's no fighting in there, but just in case, I want you to wear this. Just this once." _Just so I don't worry out of my mind about you_.

Although she had absolutely no urge to wear the thing—if he didn't have to wear one of the things, why did she; she needed to get used to this whole business!—Angela agreed. However, before he had a chance to pull back, she, for the second time, gave into her desires.

"John," she said quietly, and this time, _she_ leaned in. This time, she kissed him.

Although Constantine knew this was probably a very bad idea when they were in front of a half-breed infested hole like Midnite's, he didn't much care. Instead, his left hand moved to the back of her head, and he furthered the kiss.

Fucking hell, what did this woman _do_ to him?

Angela no longer regretted going out with John this night. In fact, she was rather happy she did.

Yet there was still a part of her unaffected by his presence; there was still a portion of her obsessed with the events of the day, with the dead 26-year old. Killed by _them_. Just like her sister.

Was Alicia burning for it too?

And just like in Angela's case, within John there was an empty chasm untouched, but his was a bottomless pit dug by decades of untold sorrows and agonies. Hers was only now becoming large enough to notice.

And in both, this hole in their souls burned all the stronger as the kiss deepened and deepened.

Despite all of this, Angela drew herself closer to John, needing him. She _needed_ him. Her hand slipped under his coat onto the fabric of his 200-dollar white collared shirt, to his side, her other onto his shoulder. His grip tightened on the nape of her neck, and his other hand pushed up the bottom of her coat and the bottom of her shirt, sliding up her bare back.

For a moment, he was all there was for her, and she was all there was for him. They were in their own realm, one in which problems could be ignored, one in which hardship and guilt and pain slipped so far into the background that they didn't even exist.

Although it was the last thing in the world that he wanted to do, John pulled away first. "We should go in," he said, his voice an out-of-breath whisper.

It was obvious his body did not quite agree with this decision, but as was often the case, his mind won out. They were nowhere near the point of no return, yet still surprisingly close.

Angela smiled, looked down and then back up. "Yeah, we should," she agreed, her voice just as quiet. Angela began to move back, moved forward again, jarred back—she was a conglomeration of indecision—and finally moved forward one last time to give him a peck on the lips. The next moment, the car door opened, and she was getting out.

John sat there for a moment, took a deep breath and collected himself. This was just insane.

To calm his nerves and a craving all at once, he reached into his coat pocket and took out his pack of nicotine gum. Taking out a piece, he unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth, putting the half-empty pack and the wrapper into his inner coat pocket, beside his holy golden knuckles. Now ready to leave, he opened the car door and stepped out.

However, in the interval between Angela's departure from the taxicab and his, she remembered something; she remembered the amulet. The smile on her face faded as she hastily undid the clasp, taking the necklace and placing it into her coat pocket. Her golden necklace with its minute cross stayed on.

When John exited the car, Angela half-forced, half-allowed a smile to come. She prayed he wouldn't notice the absence of the amulet, and he didn't.

The fact that even veteran cops wore "bullet-proof vests," as John had once told her to think of the amulet, did not even cross her mind. Neither did the fact that only the stupid, reckless ones didn't.

Together, the pair walked across the dry, gray pavement and crossed the street. The sidewalks were filled with people milling about, and the roads were just a step away from traffic. One really wouldn't have expected there to be such a heavy crowd at this hour.

Once on the club's side of the street, Angela followed John to the doors of the entrance to the underground club. But, before they'd quite reached them, he stopped.

"John?" she said, noticing that they weren't actually _in front_ of any entrances. Was it hidden or something? More magic?

"To get in, you're going to have to do just what we did yesterday," he told her. "Just remember, either look through their eyes or at the _whole_ card, and you'll do fine."

She'd have to guess a _card_ to enter the club?

"All right," she said, but inside, as she followed him once again, she was only thinking of how cliché this was, and obviously, about what had just gone on in the car.

And, of course, about the dead girl and the half-breed from earlier in the day.

And, indirectly, Isabel.

Angela and John walked to the entrance, and here he opened the right-hand door, motioning for her to enter. After a slight hesitation, she did, and strangely enough, the dark interior wasn't really all that out of the ordinary. At all. It was your typical, gothic nightclub. Past the doors, there was only a landing, and past that, a stairwell. The lighting was entirely red, and once you'd reached the bottom of the stairwell, this colored glow was all you had to go by. With it, though, you could make out most everything.

Along the wall behind the bouncer, there were two chairs, one a metal foldout type, the second also made of metal, but with its shape set, its back and seat padded. One or two decorative curtains were there, as was a small, ceramic stand, like a plain, miniature fountain only a foot tall. Other objects Angela couldn't quite make out were strewn against the wall in a rather orderly mess as well.

Nonetheless, there were still shadows, and in the far corner, surrounded by bits of junk, for all anyone knew, there was a colony of rabid mini-spooks, just waiting to make their move.

Angela and Constantine walked side-by-side down the stairs, but about two steps up from the floor, he stopped, allowing her to go ahead. Hesitantly, after a glance back up at him, she did so, down to the small, corded-off square space in front of the last step. Strands of rock music you could dance to wafted in from the main area of the club, still a level down. The steps directly to Angela's right led there, and here, at this crossroads between out there with the humans and in here with the half-breeds, was the gatekeeper: a bouncer, just the usual, every-day bouncer, with an extremely short, dark brown crew-cut, a tattoo going all the way around the biceps of his left arm, long black pants, and a sleeveless, skin-tight shirt with straps and buckles. He was the strong but silent type, not really saying much of anything, focused solely on his job.

However, there _was_ one thing about him that set him apart from all the other bouncers out there: Instead of checking I.D., he checked psychic ability; guess the card, come right in.

Beside him was a table on which lay a stack of large picture cards, once that looked like Tarot cards but were not, and once Angela had come down to him, this man wordlessly held up a card, his face unreadable.

She could see from his eyes that he wasn't even looking at the card but at her. That ruled looking through his eyes at the card out. She would have to look at the card itself, see it as a whole.

Damn, that was the method she found most difficult, although she _had_ practiced earlier that day at the precinct. She'd been told off for slacking and goofing around, and in a way, Angela was glad for it. At least the captain, an elderly, tall man with an amenable manner and strong hatred of crime, was treating her normally and not like damaged goods, like the poor, weak damsel with the dead sister. She was just any other cop to him, and that was exactly what she wanted.

Angela hated being treated differently, and she especially hated pity.

Now, unlike at the precinct where it had only gotten her in trouble, perhaps her earlier practice would pay off.

Taking a deep breath, Angela forced herself to focus. She could _do_ this; she'd done this a hundred times before. She'd only _just_ done this earlier in the day and the day before with John.

_Take in the card as a whole… the _whole_ card… What is the card?_

John's voice rang in her head. "_What card am I holding?"_

She closed her eyes for a moment, opened them, and in that moment between blindness and sight, between dark and light, between black and red, it came to her. But this image was strange. It was so random, so very _out there_, that only the cards at this club could be blessed with it.

"Three cats on a bench," she said a few seconds after the card was drawn, a time longer than was typical in this club, and she half-expected the bouncer to keep her out of the Midnite's establishment based solely on her slow response time. However, she _had_ guessed correctly, and so he put the card down and unclipped the thick, round, red velvet cord, letting her by.

John didn't even pause when the next card was drawn. With a "Two fish in a pond," he was in.

Moving past the bouncer, Constantine couldn't help but smirk. Apparently, Midnite had made certain his employee wouldn't keep a grudge against John for knocking him out. Some bouncer; he'd gone down in one shot.

Down the second set of stairs Angela and John went, and through a cheap, shimmering curtain into a short hallway, past which was the main floor.

They were in.

At first glance, it really did seem to be an average nightclub; blood red lights illuminated the place from oriental lamps on the ceiling, and further on down, on the dance floor, white and green and blue would flash in split-second succession during the faster music. Several square, wooden columns held the ceiling up, but they also served as decoration. Perhaps they served solely as decoration, as they were more than pleasing to the eyes, being well-crafted and clean with careful molding of a darker shade along the edges. Around the dance floor, tables were scattered about, and to Angela's far right and far left were the bars where drinks could be purchased.

There wasn't anything special or spectacular about the establishment itself; it was the _people_, if you could even call them that. At first, all Angela noticed was a tint to their eyes. Red, like that of living, devilish red-eye in a poorly taken photograph, marked the Hell-spawn, and a greenish-white luminosity marked those of Heaven. Then, the flesh peeled off of some, revealing the shrunken mummy-flesh of the half-breed demons. Gray-black wings filled the place from those part angel. These especially made the place seem more crowded than it really was.

And this mismatched nightmare vision did not fade. Instead, it moved in and out of focus, the wings flickering in and out, angels and demons coming in and out of focus. But the scene itself did not shift; it stayed.

Angela practically staggered, her mouth agape. So many… there were so many. And they were all socializing, all of them; the good with the bad, the moral with the immoral, the blessed with the damned. Apparently, psychics were a minority. Forced to lean on the wall for support, she was unable to both keep her balance and examine her surroundings. John stood silently behind and to the side of her, the specter watching, aiding, and abetting her entrance into this new world.

A few tables down from the hallway in which they stood, in a fairly secluded area near the wall, were two "women," encompassed by the coal wings of one of these females. The other woman was nowhere near as angelic, was, in truth, more than repulsive in Angela's eyes, but this didn't seem to phase either of the two as hands and lips caressed.

How, how could _all_ of these beings have been real people at one point? It seemed impossible to Angela now; they were so obviously _not_ anymore. And they so obviously didn't care.

On the dance floor, figures gyrated to "Vodevil" by Marilyn Manson, and to Angela's left, half-angels in suits drank glasses of red wine that had once been water, as the half-demons drank other such alcoholic beverages purchased at the bars.

They sat in groups, they associated, they mingled, they copulated and ignored and argued and got along; God, how many _were _there? And what was really going on? If they could really get along this well, if Heaven and Hell were so buddy-buddy, was good really supposed to be superior to evil? Should good even _fight_ evil? From the picture before her, the answer Angela received was an adamant, screeching no.

Somehow, it all seemed wrong. It just all seemed so very wrong, in the worst sense of the word. It was like growing up thinking you were living with your birth parents only to found out you'd been found abandoned in a ditch as a baby. How could this be?

She felt ill.

After giving her a minute or two to absorb what she was seeing, Constantine spoke. "Let's find a table."

She couldn't speak, she'd forgotten how to; how did she even _understand_ what he was saying? What was language in face of _this_?

John had said once, "Heaven and Hell were right here, behind every wall, every window, the world behind the world." Talk about the understatement of the millennia.

She nodded dumbly. "Okay."

Angela and Constantine made their way past crowded tables until they found an empty one placed amidst all the others. It seemed all the private corners were taken.

They sat down across from each other.

"John, what _is_ this place?" she asked, trying to block out the nightmare visions that assaulted her from all sides and focus only on him.

"I told you: a nightclub, where all the really good and really bad little boys and girls can fuck with each other all they want." His double meaning was not lost on Angela, and she smiled. He really did have a way with words. A very special sort of Constantine way.

Even if the club really wasn't _that_ bad, sardonic humor was his forte.

"How does Midnite keep peace in here? What keeps them from attacking each other?"

"Why would they? They like time off, just like anyone else, though if you ask me, it's just another example of the goddamn hypocrisy."

Angela looked around again, the beings' true forms still flashing in and out like the whitecaps on a restless ocean. Gorgeous wings and hideous faces, glowing eyes barely noticeable in the red or flashing, multicolored lights. She turned her eyes back to John.

"How-how do you _live_ with all of this? Knowing that they're always here, that there are so _many_ of them? That they even get along!" This, perhaps, was the most horrible part.

Although the Mammon affair had quite literally _created_ John's faith in God, it had only served to shake Angela's and rip away at its foundation, like overzealous termites on steroids.

"You get used to it," was all he said, and the sad part was, it was true. This was mainly why he was so bitter; God and the Devil had a standing bet on people's _souls_, and when you really looked, especially in places like this, it was more than apparent. It was impossible to miss. To make matters worse, no matter the life you led, if you killed yourself from pain or desperation, you went straight to a place of eternal damnation and suffering. However, if you slaughtered people in life, if you received _pleasure_ in such carnage, you received the opportunity to _escape_ eternal damnation and suffering. Instead, you were able to stay on Earth and encourage others to do just as you had done.

It was ridiculous, and it pissed him off to _no_ end. Life shouldn't have worked this way; reality should not have _been_ this way.

But it was, and the unfairness and cruelty of it all made John disgusted, whether he now believed that God had a plan or not. God might have had a plan for all of them, but although there were likable parts to it, for the most part, he didn't find himself very pleased.

Angela was just starting to see how horrible things truly were. Sure, she'd witnessed atrocities in her police work, but she'd always believed God would be more civilized. He'd be more understanding. Before, the rules had never really bothered her; some seemed understandable, others just hadn't seemed that important. But as she'd seen firsthand in the case of her sister and John, some rules were meant to be gray.

Yet they weren't, and she was disgusted.

What kind of a world _was_ this?

Now she knew how John Constantine felt, at least to a certain extent. She'd lost her sister; he'd lost a dozen more like her. She'd abandoned Isabel; he'd been the cause of Cheryl, _his _sister's, death. And although she did blame herself for what happened to Isabel, he blamed himself for the fatalities of so many more.

And he had been in Hell.

"Yeah," Angela said, and examined the smooth wooden tabletop before her, running her fingernails across it, distractedly searching out cracks. John could barely hear her over the din. "I guess you do."

After a moment of silence between them, on one level uncomfortable, on another level simply a hiatus in time in which there was nothing that really _could_ be said, he stood up. Angela looked at him from her seat. Where was he going?

"I have some business with Midnite. Sit tight, keep the amulet on, and get used to what you see. Pretty or not, this is what the world is."

He still hadn't noticed she wasn't wearing the amulet. Good thing her shirt was not low-cut today.

"Go take care of your business," she replied. Although she didn't particularly _want_ to be left alone among all these half-breeds, it was best that she was. He knew it; she knew it.

He hesitated. "Be careful." Angela practically had to lip-read these words over the music.

And with that, he turned and walked away, down the path between Heaven and Hell, or at least their representatives on Earth.

With him gone, Angela took to examining her surroundings. There were half-breeds everywhere, talking, dancing, sitting, standing. Were she not able to see them all for what they really were, it would have seemed to her to be the archetypal, thriving nightclub. No doubt this was what any casual passer-by took it for, if they were even aware of its presence.

The music changed, from rock to something more techno, but she barely noticed. Angela was entranced; she was repulsed and attracted all at once. She couldn't take her eyes off of it.

Only when he was about a foot from her table did she even notice him.

Angela could say nothing as the black-haired half-breed she'd so wanted to arrest earlier in the day took the seat in which John had been sitting.

"Why, hello detective," he grinned, his youthful, somewhat feminine features and expressive lips leering.

Before Angela's very eyes, the flesh rotted away, and all that was left was the slimy, emaciated corpse underneath.

* * *

**Vagrant:** Yes, two replies for two reviews! . And I hope you're enjoying the "dinner" so far. As you can see, it's not really much of one. O.o 

**Danielle: **Well they're not _technically_ having dinner at all. O.o In fact, they don't actually eat a thing, but it's not as if they're really hungry either. Maybe John. Anyway, hope you liked! And yes, Angela can now see half-breeds.

**heraldtalia: **Being evil is fun! . As is angst, reading it and writing it. I'm glad you enjoyed it, I spent three days in a row blowing off my homework and writing that thing. O.o :P But yes, onto this fic… It's going to drive Angela bonkers, as you can probably already tell, although really Isabel is the main problem on her mind right now, though she's ignoring it to focus on the Alicia case for a variety of reasons. There's some mini-angst here and some mini-angst in the next chappie, but I don't really get deep into it till longer along (sorta far along, but trust me, does it get angsty . . BUAHAHAHA XD). EEEEE, and someone commented on the prologue! See, I put that thing up after Chapter 3, so that would be why you didn't notice it before. Glad you liked, it was fun to write. . And thank you for the rambling! I like long reviews! They make me a happy Salienne. You rule too for writing them. XD  
**-John:** I'm adorable now?  
**-Me, Angela, and Fred:** Yes.  
**-John:** (looks at us all as if there's something very wrong with us)

**Slvrbldrain:** I got inspiration from _Law and Order _actually… . . And I love Buffy. . Woot, rambling is good, tho'! And ignoring very very bad. But I'm glad you liked the chappie! . Thank you!

**MP: **Thank you! . And see, 'tis longer!


	7. Mistakes

**A/N1—Critique of the Week **_(i.e. what I thought of the novel version of _Constantine): _Constantine_ makes a good book, definitely, but as it was no doubt based off of the original script without knowledge of how the actors would portray the final cut, it comes off as your Happy, Kind, Neighborhood Constantine and No-Longer-Religious Angela O.o All in all, though, it IS pretty good. Really good. Just not for personalities really. o.O And some parts are definitely off and could have been done better, like the dialogue. Still, it's a pretty good resource, and a good read. :P I've just chosen to not go by it and have my own interpretation for how the psychic abilities are used.

**A/N2: **La, here's the latest chappie, part 2 of the Club. It's LONG, uber long, so it should last y'all. I'm uber glad you all enjoyed the first installment, so here it is, the second, and… get ready for this… the last chapter up on me site! After this, it's all new material for you guys! XD But it's also a longer update waiting time, especially since this is probably the last update for a week,maybe longer,partially because I won't be anywhere near a computer until Sunday night and then I'll have homework, partially because next week is MCAS week (Massachusetts standardized test), partially because I'll have so much makeup work because I'll be missing school the next three days, and partially because I need to edit and proofread now that I've reached the new stuff. When I get back, I'll be uber happy to see lots and lots of reviews. :P ;) Remember guys, R&R! Critique and rambling encouraged!

**John:** You're abandoning the fic for a week, eh?  
**Me:** I'm not abandoning it! I'm just... er...  
**John: **Abandoning it.  
**Me:** NO!  
**John:** (smirks) Then what?  
**Me:** ... Oh, go be a fly on a wall and get swatted!

* * *

**Mistakes**

John sat across from Midnite, a stick of nicotine gum in his mouth. While he was in a plain wooden chair, Midnite sat on a red imitation-leather sofa that was several feet long and rounded so that it sat across both ends of the corner. It was about half a foot in front of the wall, or, technically, the burgundy curtain and thin, wooden stilts that made up this section of the wall, and its color matched the other walls of the room. Its smooth surface, however, did not. Instead, the walls were made up of a repeating diamond design. Thin, crisscrossing wooden boards lined the ceiling, and the lighting for the room was provided by bulbs placed in some of the open squares created by this layout, a lamp located behind Midnite's head, another lamp on the crowded, oval tabletop between the two of them, a long, fluorescent bulb on the ceiling above the table, and other lamps of varying styles that were placed sporadically about.

"It's authentic, Midnite. How many times do I have to tell you?" John said. On this table before him, other than the round, off-white shaded lamp, were also well-crafted and small, polished Aztec statues, a half-full wine glass with accompanying bottle, an ashtray, a crystal vase, a round, raspberry red container, and the figurine of the Virgin Mary John had been examining several days earlier. It was to this last object that he was referring.

"Show me _proof_," Midnite told him, motioning at John with his cigar. He sat with dignity, the proprietor of this establishment, wearing a pinstriped black suit and underneath that, a dress shirt that was dark blue, maroon, and green, a tucked-in striped purple tie, and a plush, fuzzy orange scarf that basically acted as the collar of his overcoat. On his head was the hat of a blue's musician, and all of his clothing was expensive and stylish. His dark brown face and eyes radiated seriousness. And danger. "I do not need another forgery."

"Come on, Midnite. Have I ever cheated you before?" Constantine asked, feigning innocence.

"Yes," Midnite answered without delay.

"On _purpose_," John elaborated.

"It's more than likely."

"Jesus, Midnite, you make me sound like a con man."

"Maybe because you are."

Midnite blew a stream of air and smoke from his lips, and the smell of his cigar stirred within John a _tremendous_ need for a coffin nail. He didn't have lung cancer anymore, after all, and it had taken him how many years to develop a malignant form? Around twenty? Couldn't he just pick the habit up again?

The answer, of course, was no.

John sat up straighter. "Look, as far as I know, it's authentic. I examined the thing myself. The Mother of God, dating all the way back to the 400's AD."

The ex Good Witch Doctor looked at the idol; he picked it up, held it in his hand and looked it over.

"This better be the real thing, John," he said at last, and placed it standing up on the table before him. It didn't even stand out among the jade and obsidian Native American figurines he had there already. He'd examine it more carefully later.

Constantine said nothing.

"What do you want for it? How much?"

"Actually," Constantine began, his fingertips on the table as he leaned in, "I was hoping you might find me something else."

"John-"

"Listen. Nothing big, nothing that would disturb the Balance. But I need a new Beeman, a new bookworm with a supply line. Someone I can trust."

"John, I don't run for good anymore. I'm neutral. I can't help you."

"I'm not asking you to." He sat up, reached into his coat pocket and took out a gum wrapper, spitting his gum into it. There was a wastebasket in the far corner of the room, and he threw it in. John turned back to Midnite. "It's just a business deal, the kind you make every day. I just need human goods."

Midnite paused to think it over.

"Come back tomorrow. I'll have an answer for you then."

Had there ever been any doubt? Making to get up, he spoke. "A pleasure doing business with you, Midnite."

Assuming their meeting was over, Constantine stood and turned, moving past the extra, cream-colored chair beside the couch, past the glass-protected, crammed shelves inside the wall, past the old, wise-looking man sitting to the right of the exit. He had to get back to Angela, anyway. He was worried about her, worried about how she was doing out there by herself.

Could she really take care of herself?

The answer was obviously a yes, but still…

Damn it, why the hell did he care so much?

Midnite's words caught him completely off-guard, and he froze in mid-step, just as he was about to move past the long, red fluorescent light on the wall beside the sitting, African-American man and out the doors, one after another, both wooden with one side covered by the red imitation-leather, repeating diamond design. "You brought her with you here today."

John twisted his upper body around. "Brought who?"

"You know who, John. The girl, Angela."

John turned around fully. "What's it to you?" he asked.

"You're putting yourselves in unnecessary danger. The people in there have eyes and ears, and they don't like you. They'll use her to get to you."

Constantine walked back over, leaned in on the table, staring Midnite down from his superior position.

Midnite didn't blink. Instead, he merely took a drag on his cigar, blowing the smoke out calmly.

"I thought you couldn't help one side or the other anymore," Constantine said softly, firmly.

"I'm not. I'm merely giving you some advice." He now leaned in as well, so that his face was inches from that of his once-friend. "I suggest you follow it."

"Stick to bar keeping, Midnite." And with that, John left the room, the door that blended into the wall swinging shut behind him, music from the club leaking in from the crack between the wall and this door, left ajar.

* * *

"Why are you following me?" Angela demanded. That was what the bastard was doing, wasn't it? Why else would he be here, in this club, at the same time as her? 

"I don't know what you're talking about. I just came in here for a drink and… here you are. You know, you _did_ chase _me_ down, Detective. Are you following _me_, perchance?" The half-breed flashed another winning smile that would work on most anyone who did not see shrunken, wrinkled flesh crinkling into said position. Even the loose, black t-shirt and tight, worn leather pants with straps and buckles—clothing that might otherwise have actually looked rather nice—looked despicable and out of place on him.

Angela chose to change the subject to a somewhat more important topic. "Who was it?" she demanded, leaning in, much like John would soon be doing in the very next room. "Who did you make kill that girl?"

"I didn't _make_ anyone _do_ anything," he replied, leaning back on his chair and putting his thick, black army boots atop the table. "There's still free will, you know. The biggest gift you guys received and all that."

Angela sat up straight again, her arms folded over each other atop the table.

Fine, if he wanted to play it that way. "Then who did you _influence_? Who killed Alicia Bennet?"

"That," he said, making a pointing motion into the air, "I can't tell you." His legs swung back down, and all four chair legs made contact with the floor once more. "Besides, if I did, how could you prove it, anyway? Figure it out yourself. You're a psychic and a cop, aren't you? You should be able to deduce it all out."

"You know who did it," Angela said, and stood, coming around the table and leaning in _very_ close. "Why not just tell me? What could it hurt?"

Typical interrogation techniques, although in a very atypical spot.

The half-breed grinned again, a full-toothed grin, the teeth horribly malformed and crooked from Angela's perspective, and brought his decayed hand up to brush her cheek. She instantly jerked back; she blinked, and he appeared human, only the crimson shine from his pupils giving him away.

"Careful," he warned, his voice taunting yet menacing, "I might just take that as an invitation."

Her heart running a marathon in her chest, Angela leaned in again. "You don't scare me," she said very quietly, so quietly she wasn't even sure if he'd be able to hear her over the din of the music. She was barely able to hear herself.

But he did. She could tell from the way the corners of his lips crept even further upwards.

"Oh I will." He stood up, and she moved back so he would not brush up against her. She didn't want to _touch_ him. She would have preferred to dive into a pit of poisonous snakes infected with the West Nile virus than to be any closer to him. Sensing this, he sneered, but didn't move any closer. "The name's Dameon, by the way. Tell Constantine I said hello."

After giving her a little salute, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Angela stared after him for a good long while, her eyes narrowing and scanning the multitude, just in case he was to return. How she was supposed to spot him in this, she didn't rightly know, but somehow, she had a feeling she'd be able to.

She didn't.

He was gone, at least as far as she could tell, although in reality, he stood just out of sight, watching her and sipping his drink, letting his hair obscure his features every time her gaze moved his way.

Oh yes, this would be fun.

She sat down, still looking around cautiously, twiddling her fingers on the table and doing her best to keep from resting a hand on her gun, as she was prone to do. She preferred it hidden at the moment, not that it would do her much good.

Soon, John returned, and both could tell there was something not quite right with the other. Both seemed slightly off, her more so than him.

"How'd you do?" he asked first, sitting down in the chair that Dameon had only moments ago occupied.

"What?" she said, not quite understanding. At first, she thought he meant, how'd she'd done in terms of dealing with—what was his name, Dameon? But of course not, how could he know? "Oh. Fine, it went… fine, I guess. You know, as well as can be expected." Nervously, she pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, then another lock behind the other ear.

The fact that Dameon had asked her to say "Hello" to Constantine for him did bother her, though, although she knew the half-demon had probably only made this request for two reasons: one, to worry her, and two, because John was so well known.

But no, that was an understatement. John Constantine was not just well known; the half-breeds knew him and hated him.

Yet it did nevertheless bother her.

Angela was certainly _not_ going to extend that greeting.

"How did your business with Midnite go?"

Constantine knew she wasn't telling him the whole truth, it was obvious. Yet he just assumed she needed time to absorb what she'd seen, to process it all in her mind. She needed time. And so, knowing this, he did not press.

"As well as business with Midnite _can_ go." Angela blinked, looked at him and then allowed her eyes to wander, the flashing lights and their reflections on the cellophane-like curtain strips hanging along the walls hurting her gray eyes. "Our deal should be finalized tomorrow."

"That's good," Angela said, her roaming eyes now back on him, but at the moment, honestly, she really didn't care very much, as long as Midnite hadn't decided John was his new arch-nemesis, or something of the like. She just wanted to get out of there. "John… I think I've had enough for tonight. Can we leave?"

"Sure," he said, knowing all of this had to be more than merely difficult for her, knowing it had to be a nightmare, but having absolutely no idea just how much. And besides that, he didn't really want to be there either, especially not after his latest conversation with Midnite.

Constantine stood, and she did as well. She followed after him as they weaved around the clientele, and then they went down the hall, up the stairwell, past the bouncer, up the other stairwell, and out onto the street.

Angela had never been happier to see the sky or taste fresh, crisp, polluted L.A. air.

In silence, they crossed the street, the area having calmed down some, and walked over to the taxicab Chas had left the man he'd idolized.

The moment she was in the car, Angela sat back in her seat and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She was even more exhausted than she'd been earlier in the day. She could barely keep her eyes open, and she felt like an operation had been performed on her arms and legs to replace all the voluntary muscle tissue and nerve connections to her brain with extra-dense lead.

She needed sleep.

Forcing herself to remain awake, she reopened her eyes and turned her head to the left, watching John start the car up.

"What time is it?" she asked, still reclining fully against the seat, her head collapsed against it. She'd completely forgotten that she was not only wearing a watch but that there was a digital clock right there on the dashboard.

Pulling out onto the road, he glanced at his watch, forgetting about the car's clock as well. "12:19." Damn, had that much time really passed? It didn't seem possible. They hadn't spent _that_ much time in there, had they? Only a half hour, an hour tops.

Time really flew when you were having a miserable time.

Not counting that time with John in the car, before they'd entered the club, though. Then, time had flown for other reasons.

She'd need jugs of coffee to wake her up the next morning for work, that was for sure.

Angela now remembered about her own wristwatch, and glanced at it, just to be sure. He was right. It was already past the Witching Hour. And she'd been so counting on casting a spell or two while dancing atop a pentagram under the moon during the most potent time of the night. What a shame.

She turned her head again, staring out the window as streetlights, brick buildings, ditches, sidewalks, and people of all walks of life flew by. Every once in a while, she would turn to look at the driver, but then she'd turn back to the window. They made record time as they weaved through the downtown streets, and then they came somewhat more uptown. They flew across one of the most loved and hated freeways in L.A., one that didn't even move during Rush Hour, and before long, they were at her building.

"You should go in, get some sleep," he told her.

She nodded, once again brushed the hair out of her face.

"Tomorrow, get some rest. No more of this for at least two days, understand?"

She smiled, tired beyond belief, and nodded. "All right."

Reaching for the door handle, too drained to even _think_ of doing anything else, she was stopped by John saying her name. She turned, half-anticipating what was about to come, but, as usual, it didn't. He only leaned forward, his hand moving to he back of her neck, so in her somnolent state, Angela decided to take matters into her own hands. The reservations she had were too dulled by fatigue to stop her.

She closed the distance between them and kissed him, in a languid, weary, tender manner, her hand running through his hair. After the initial moment of surprise, he returned the embrace. A few long seconds after, as he pulled slowly away, he reached past the strands of hair at back of her neck to the skin underneath, searching for the clasp of the amulet he'd originally gone after. Angela smiled, her eyes closed, enjoying the feeling in her lethargic state.

Suddenly, he drew fully back, his hand still on the back of her neck. His expression was deadly serious, and his voice was more than a little worried. "Angela, where's the amulet?"

Shit! She'd completely forgotten about it. Shitshitshit.

"I took it off. After we left the club," she lied as best she was able. She sounded entirely sincere.

But not to him. John could see right through the act.

"Get out," Constantine ordered in a cold, low voice. He backed his torso up, in line with his seat, and took his hand away.

"John, what-"

He was facing forward now, no longer even looking at her but out the windshield. "Get out of the car."

Damn it, he'd asked _one_ thing of her. Just one. _One_ fucking thing, and he hadn't been planning on asking it again any time soon. Just this _one_ time, her first time in that club, he'd wanted her to be safe. He'd wanted her to wear the amulet. A ban on violence or no, it was still dangerous to be there if you were just coming into your powers as she was.

What the _hell_ had she been thinking? And to _lie_ to him about it!

And what the _hell_ had _he_ been thinking to agree to all of this?

"John, I was fine in the club. Nothing happened to me." She had basically admitted now that she had in truth _not_ worn the amulet, but apparently, he already knew that.

"Get out of the car, Angela."

Angela had never seen him this angry before. Ever. Perhaps when she'd first met him, at the Church library and he'd been arguing with Gabriel, but she'd been at a good distance away. She hadn't really heard or seen anything besides a holy book being thrown.

He wasn't yelling, he wasn't even yelling at her. But his forced calm was obviously just that: forced. He was like lighter fluid, a still, cool liquid, with the ability to burst into flames with the most minimal of prompting, with only a flick of the wrist, or the pull of a thumb. He was dangerous like this.

She gave him a long, hard look, debating her options. Although she was getting steadily angrier at _him_, she knew that if she got out of the car then, she might very well never see him again. This wasn't paranoia; this was realism. This was what John was like.

There were a plethora of reasons as to why that couldn't happen, not the least of which being that part of her knew she had betrayed his trust by taking off the amulet.

She decided to remain.

"No," she said, sitting back in her seat, not a trace of fear or regret but only resolve in her mien. She gave him a look, daring him to tell her to vacate the vehicle again.

He did something very unexpected then, something very un-Constantine-ish.

"Damn it, Angela!" he exclaimed, hitting the steering wheel with his left hand as he whirled his upper body around to face her. "You could have died, do you understand that? Just like your fucking sister, you could have died. You could have been ripped up, piece by piece, and made to live through the whole damn thing. Agony upon brutal, screaming agony. Torture you can't even dream of. Is _that_ what you want?"

The wrist and thumb had been flicked; the fluid had now exploded into flames.

Angela was shaken, but not only that. More than anything, she was _furious_. "Don't you dare bring Isabel into this," she said quietly, her voice low and quavering with rage.

"Why not? She's why you're doing all this, isn't she? She's why you're getting yourself into this, and she's why you're doing such a pisspoor job of it. She died, and you didn't. That doesn't mean you have to die now, too."

"That's not what I'm doing! I'm not my sister-"

"But what, you should have died in her place?"

"No, I-" But wait, was that it? Was that really what she felt, deep down? That _she_ should have died, not Izzy?

And Angela knew that answer. That was it exactly.

What was she trying to do now to make up for it? _Was _she trying to get herself killed as some sort of repentance?

Or was she trying to do that which she knew she _owed_ her sister; was she trying to embrace this gift of hers and fight demons as a _different_ kind of penitence, one that, nonetheless, would probably have the same end result as the former? Was that why she was being so reckless?

Angela honestly didn't know, and to be completely truthful, she didn't really want to. But at least she wasn't denying that Isabel was somehow a part of this, because she wasn't that naïve. Angela wasn't just rediscovering a lost part of herself; she was trying to pay her debts to the identical twin sister she'd abandoned, something she could never hope to do. But she could try.

She looked down, took a shuddering breath and suppressed tears as best she was able, wringing her hands together and then bringing them apart, grasping the fabric of the seat as she looked up.

She was no longer quite so angry.

"John, I know I'm not Isabel, and I know that she died. I know that she's dead, and I know I'm not. But maybe if I-maybe if I'd just stood by her, back when we were little, maybe she'd still be alive. And if I'm going to live while she's dead, the very least I can do is stop denying what I can see and feel, what I always could. But Isabel isn't why I didn't wear the amulet; she's not the reason for why I'm doing this how I'm doing this." But was that really the truth?

Whatever, it didn't matter. She couldn't think about that now. Angela pushed the thought away.

"Then what _is_ the reason?" he asked her. "Enlighten me."

"Because this is how I do things. I don't need a necklace to protect me, especially not in a club like that where there _is_ no violence. I don't need you to protect me. I'm not a little girl, John. I can take care of myself."

Constantine paused before he spoke next, and when he did, his voice was quieter, more temperate than before, but nowhere near gentle or kind. He was going to tell her the facts. "You're new to this, Angela. You don't know what's out there. You could have been grabbed in that club; you could have been lured or ambushed. I told you specifically to wear that amulet, not every day or every time, but this _one_ time, your first time. Can you understand that?"

Were Angela's voice and face not full of a determination and fierceness, her response might have been mistaken for passive, submissive. "Yes, I can."

He looked at her carefully, piercingly, trying to figure her out. To Angela, this was almost eerie, certainly awkward. But she did not avert her eyes.

"Your last chance, Angela," he said at last. "One more stunt like this, and we're done. I'm not going to be responsible for your death. You want to get yourself killed, do it on your own time."

The full meaning of these words did not strike Angela until much later. Her training would not be the only thing that would be over. Any and all contact between them would be terminated as well.

She nodded. "All right."

After one last glance at him, she forced herself to look away and moved her hand toward the door handle.

"Angela," he said, and she turned her head, her hand on the handle. "Yeah."

"The amulet, wear it tonight. You don't know what could have followed you home."

Even though her immediate reaction was that of blatant refusal, her mind soon took over. What had she just agreed to? What had he _just_ said?

And besides that, this Dameon character… God only knew what he was planning.

If God even knew.

She nodded. "Okay."

"Put it on."

After a brief hesitation, Angela reached into her coat pocket and felt for the cool metal chain. It was right there, right where she'd left it. She took it out as John looked on in silence, and turned her head downward, fixing the clasp atop her hair, almost black in the current lighting and still somewhat wavy, now rather tangled. After it was fastened, she pulled her hair up from underneath the chain and let it fall back over.

"I'll call you," he told her once this was accomplished and she'd brought her face back up, and it was obvious that this was his dismissal of her.

"I'll be sure to pick up," she replied, and then she opened the car door and began to step out. However, just as she was getting ready to pull herself out, she stopped and turned back to him.

"John, my sister… How can you be sure the Devil kept his promise? How can you be sure she's in heaven?"

"She is," he said without pause. The Devil may have been the Devil, but dear old Lu' kept his promises.

Usually.

Angela nodded, began to leave the car again… but then stopped, turning to face him once more.

"John, I need to see. I need to see it for myself." He stayed silent. "Can I, um… is it possible for me to… can I go down to Hell, like you did? Can I see for myself? Can I make sure she's not down there anymore?"

This time, he did not answer immediately, but he nevertheless did give her a concise response. "Yes."

"Can you help me? Can you show me how?"

"Yes."

Angela brought her eyes down for a moment, about to ask the big question. Her heart was pounding, and she was terrified, _terrified_, that he would say no or would give her some sort of ultimatum. Perhaps he'd blackmail her, telling her that only after she had listened to him for a certain amount of time he would do this thing.

But that wasn't like him… was it?

Angela brought her eyes back up.

"Will you?" she asked, her voice somehow small but strong all at the same time.

John looked down, smirked, and looked back towards her, much like she had just done. He'd known this was coming.

"Sure. About time you learned how to come and go from Hell."

She smiled, the tears—ones she had yet to shed for Isabel—glistening in her eyes on account of the overhead streetlights. "Thanks." And this time, she did get out of the car, and just before she shut the door, she bent over, looking him in the eyes. "I'm sorry, John."

* * *

**Vagrant:** Yes, two replies for two reviews:D And I hope you're enjoying the "dinner" so far. As you can see, it's not really much of one. O.o 

**Daydrmer: **Yick, AP. I have to take an AP US History test next year. I dun wanna. T-T I would be taking more but the school I'm going to doesn't really offer them. O.o (Gives you plenty of caffeine and sugar and Jelly Belly™s to get you functioning again)  
But yes… Glad to see I'm not the only one with a problem with Chastine, and I completely agree with you on the John/Angela. As disappointing as this might be, the two of them do NOT sleep together ANYWHERE in my fic and shant for a while. _À mon avis,_ Angela is most definitely a wait-till-marriage sort of gal. I originally had her and John make out way too early, and then I realized, hey, not in personalities, and I changed it. Not that difficult. (Grumbles) Parody sounds good, parody makes person on verge of tugging out hair laugh…

Sorry, me rant over now too. :P Now onwards to the chappie!

Methinks I love the word methinks, GO Shakespeare, and I ish glad that thou enjoyed me chappie. It's one of my fav's so far.

Methinks I am updating with hopes that this chappie is equally enjoyed by yousa as well, though if it's not, feel free to tell me so I can fix it. :D

**heraldtalia: **Angela isn't the bright cop in the field in me fic, but only because I see her acting this way… I ish special, I know.

WOOT, a ramble! They're my fav types of reviews. XD

I agree with all thy points. I'm a huge slash fan myself, but Chas/John just… doesn't make me a happy Salienne. There are even some Balthazar/Constantine fics that are done WELL that I enjoy, but I just haven't really seen a good Chastine…

NOW ON TO MY CHAPPIE! XD Glad to see I made some good points. I love dark things like this. And it's not pretentious at all, it was really what I was going for, that and that he does the same for her in helping her/forcing her to face her own demons. Ooooh, I'm going to have so much fun writing the scenes that lead to the scene you see in my prologue… .

Did I mention thank you for using the word "jaded?" I've heard that word SO often, and loved it, but I never bothered to look it up. Now I did. Thank you! .

**-John:** I'm loved now?  
**-Me:** Yes! (glomp)  
**-John:** (thinking) _Where's Lu' when I need him…?_

**figmentofimagination: **Glad to see I'm not alone in my opinion. :P As for me fic, your welcome. I'm happy it's enjoyed. :D Thanks for pointing out that line, too. I loved writing about the inside workings of John and Angela in that part, and to be honest, I wasn't sure if those lines sounded right. Now I know that they do. :P I only have one muse, though, Fred, though she might as well be more than one with all the mood swings she has. -.-" (I love you Fred, don't hurt me/my inspiration:P)

**MP: **XD

**Slvrbldrain:** Wow, I'm honored that you actually went to me homepage. Luckily, this account has almost caught up to me site. Glad you liked, just one more chapter and then brand new stuff for ye! Thanks for the comments on me characters, too. I'm always worried about that. And I don't mind the skater talk at all, I have me own really random way of speech. Do old English/Pirate talk/random high school slang/some big words mix? O.o

**Evelyn: **Thank ye! I'm glad that you liked! I shall try to keep it as well-done.


	8. Dealings With Devils

**A/N1:** So… many… reviews! O.O (Showers everyone with advance versions of the Constantine dvd, the LONG version) Thanks guys! Seriously, I don't think I've ever gotten this many reviews to one chap, not even with my POTC fic… Keep up the reviews, guys, and I'll love you all forever! They make me happy:D Remember, critique encouraged! ;)

**A/N2—MY OTHER CONSTANTINE FIC:** As you all may or may not know, I have a second Constantine fic, a very dark, very angsty, NC-17 fic (in which Ellie never existed; this is a minor point though and doesn't really make much of a difference). I can't put it up on here, though, since it's NC-17 and making it R (or M in this case) would basically take away from it. You can find it at me site at http / www . freewebs. com / constantinefic / (just take away the spaces). Tell me what you think!

**Angela:** You're advertising your other fic _in_ this fic.  
**Me:** Yes.  
**Angela:** Isn't that a little dishonest?  
**Me:** How so?  
**Angela:** Your reviewers might feel obligated to read, or they might assume that one is as good as this one.  
**Me:** A) Why wouldn't it be, b) this is just pimping it FURTHER, and c) You just called this fic good.  
**Angela:** I'm not John, I can admit this is a good fic.  
**Me:** Sweet.  
**John:** I heard that.  
**Me:** And we care _why_…?

* * *

**Dealings with Devils**

It was two days before Angela heard from Constantine again, but that night, after she left the taxicab, she had no idea just how much time would pass. Nor was she really thinking about it. All she cared about, then and there, was that she would finally see if Isabel was indeed safe, and while a part of her looked forward to it more than she'd ever looked forward to Christmas morning as a child, another part of her dreaded it more than going to see her sister's dead body at Ravenscar.

Before she went to bed, Angela could have sworn someone was watching her, but after checking around her apartment and closing all the blinds, she found no one and nothing.

And so, Angela changed into her white nightgown, one somehow conservative yet also sexy and classy with the piece of somewhat rumpled fabric over her breasts separate from the main body of the sleepwear. After a considerable amount of tossing and turning, she fell asleep.

That she even _managed_ to lose consciousness could very well have been considered a miracle, but then again, maybe not. Sometimes new, overwhelming information stimulated the mind and adrenal glands more effectively than Green Mountain coffee followed by a few Starbucks espressos, but sometimes, this same something overloaded the mind, causing both it and body to shut down. The subconscious could then cope with that which could not be coped with, giving the actual conscious persona a chance to rest.

But sometimes, both happened simultaneously, resulting in a restless, harried sleep that was almost worse than no sleep at all.

That night, Angela fell into this third category, no doubt the most common of the bunch. And not only that, but she had a very strange dream. A disturbing dream. In this dream, there was a half-breed, and not one of the good guys. Instead, the outer flesh was gone and there was only the demon. Dameon.

In her dream, Dameon stood inside the doorway of her bedroom, breathing hard as he began to approach the bed. Angela could see herself lying under the covers, oblivious and ostensibly helpless, her hair spread out over the pristine white pillowcase, the hotel-like beige sheet and multi-shaded brown comforter down over her waist. Dameon reached out for her with a wrinkled, slimy gray claw, but then… Then somehow Isabel was there, in her hospital gown, standing between the bed and him, and he was hissing and cursing, recoiling backwards. Steam seemed to roll off of him in waves, and a faraway stench of burning flesh and a touch of sickening warmth somehow reached Watcher Angela, who only dully felt disgust.

The skin over Watcher Angela's nonexistent lower throat, right between her nonexistent collarbones, felt warm, as if from some charm having slipped upwards as she lay, and then Dream Isabel turned towards the bed. Ignoring the sputtering half-breed behind her, she ran her hand over Sleeping Angela's brow and hair, and although she tried, Watcher Angela could not see her twin's face. Instead, she watched as Dream Isabel bent down and kissed Sleeping Angela's forehead and whispered something in her ear. Watcher Angela saw Dream Isabel make the shape of the Cross on her slumbering twin's forehead, and then stand back up.

Then, just as the supposedly injured Dameon lunged again, Isabel turned her head and looked directly at Watcher Angela.

The shriek that came out of her sister's mouth was inhuman, reminiscent of a badly tuned piano that played the many melodies of nails on a chalkboard, and Angela shot up in a cold sweat at 4:26 AM.

Breathing hard, she reached for her neck and immediately found the amulet hanging beside her small cross. She grasped the metal with her hand, like a drowning man would grasp a life raft, like someone having an asthma attack would grasp an inhaler. It was not strangely hot or cold, but an ordinary temperature. It was just like any other necklace.

With her heart still pounding, her lungs gasping for air, and goose bumps throwing a fiesta on her arms and legs, she drew her legs up, the covers falling away at her feet, and rested her head against her knees, her hair cascading to either side of her head. In her right hand, she continued to grip the amulet like a toddler with a butterfly, tightly yet also tenderly, with awe and even fear. She couldn't let it go, but she didn't want to hold it. While she could feel that it was a protector of sorts, a part of her was nonetheless frightened that it would do something vicious at any moment, such as bursting into flames, scorching her hand, burning a painful hole into either her body or soul.

What the _hell_ had that dream been about? Had Izzy really been there, in the room with her?

And why had she shrieked? Why had Isabel shrieked that unearthly shriek?

Had Dameon really broken in earlier?

Questions like these and more raced through Angela's head with the swiftness of a Tazmanian devil trying to outrun a twister, but she was far too distressed to really consider any of them.

Why had Isabel shrieked?

Was it a sign… a sign that she was still in hell? Was Dameon somehow keeping her there? Had Satan broken his promise? Was Isabel still suffering for sins she didn't deserve to suffer for?

Did Isabel blame her?

The fact that perhaps Isabel had been warning Angela of dangers to come did not even occur to the detective. The fact that perhaps Isabel had merely screeched to awaken her beloved twin sister while she lay in danger did, however, but somehow, Angela could not accept that as the truth in its entirety. There had to be something more, but all she could come up with was an image of Isabel shrieking as she writhed in pain in Hell.

Shakily, Angela checked the apartment again, just like she had done before going to bed, just in case… Nothing.

She did not get back to sleep, and she was on edge the rest of the night. Coffee became a bosom friend.

That morning at 6:15, Angela went out for her daily run, but this time, she took her gun with her.

* * *

John went to bed late that night, or early that morning, depending on how one looked at it. He never really did sleep much in the first place, and the fact that he was in an awful mood upon his arrival at home didn't help much.

It was a good thing he'd gotten rid of his lighter and every last cigarette, else there was no doubt that he would've smoked a pack or two right then and there. Screw the nicotine gum. Screw healthy lungs.

But as it stood, this gum was all he had, and so, on the way home, he popped a piece into his mouth.

It did jackshit.

Maybe he should just stop by a drug store, yes, that was the smart thing to do. Just buy a pack, just one pack of Lucky Strikes. Just one pack, just this one time…

No.

Upon his arrival at the Bowling Alley, he _really_ didn't have much of anything to do, and so, after pacing, replacing his gum with a fresh piece, and more pacing, he was forced to resort to the unthinkable… looking over his bills and accounts.

It was about time he took care of his finances.

After going over the expenses and profits of the Bowling Alley (he owned it), the contents of his bank account, and basically just all of his money overall at the desk beside his bed… Constantine had decided that money was a greater curse upon humanity than half-breeds. Forget the killing of the First Borns. Moses should have tried giving the Pharoh a checkbook to balance. See how fast the Jews would have been released _then_.

However, Constantine did get _some_ work done in his on-and-off three hours of late-night bill-paying, and so it was almost worth it.

Anything to get his mind off of Angela and the many dead.

Whoever said ghosts didn't exist obviously lived in a happy dreamworld, a dreamworld whose existence was no doubt denied as well by these oblivious optimists. Idiots, the lot of them.

John's sleep that night, if he even _had_ any, was restless at best, and just past dawn he gave up on it entirely.

Looking into his fridge, he wasn't surprised to find next to nothing and settled for two buttered slices of bread with the last of his one-and-a-half-week old milk.

After killing some more time once he'd finished his _tremendously_ fulfilling breakfast—and it sure was a _hell_ of a lot of time to kill—he walked downstairs and talked to the manager of the Bowling Alley, just arrived. Constantine may have owned the building but he really didn't do much for the place; he just didn't have the time and didn't want to bother. It was income, that was it. Let the guys he hired take care of the place; he had better things to do, like go out to half-breed bars and exorcise demons. Or just stay up in his apartment and brood.

Once he was finished with this conversation, John went out in the taxi and did those things that all normal people in L.A., or anywhere really, had to do: get gas, groceries, and fast food. He even visited the bank, though he wasn't very thrilled with what he found there.

For John Constantine, every day wasn't filled with some sort of demonic adventure. Some were actually quite dull. This was one of the latter.

Not exactly the kind of day one wanted when one wanted to distract oneself. Not exactly the kind of day John wanted when he wanted to get his mind off of Angela.

Just past 4:30 that day, right as the sun was beginning to lose its magnificence as lord of the sky, he pulled in across the street from Midnite's. The ex-witch doctor should have had something for him by then.

He walked into the deserted nightclub, past the bouncer who never seemed to get a break ("A dog over the moon" was the password this time), past the deserted scattered tables, chairs, and well-crafted columns to the door to the back. It swung open, and, sure enough, there was Midnite at his desk. This time around, however, the chair directly to the left of the entrance was empty of the omnipresent, cigar-smoking human statue.

Midnite looked up when he entered, putting down the book he was reading. This book looked conspicuously _un_like the Bible. Today, the fuzzy orange scarf was gone, and along with the silver scorpion medallion, dark red bandanna, and black rimmed hat he always wore, Midnite had on a black trench coat, pinstriped with red, and underneath that, a shirt checkered with reds, blues, and whites, the collar open and the top two buttons undone. Constantine, who was still wearing his typical, going-to-a-funeral getup of white collared shirt and black pants, tie, and long overcoat, could not make out the pants of his outfit, as the man whose name more than matched his skin tone was still sitting behind his table.

"John, I've been expecting you." Constantine said nothing as he took his seat across from the barkeep, only kept his eyes on him. "It turns out that the Mary is, indeed, authentic."

Huh, that was surprising. He'd been expecting to be shoved magically into a wall, beaten, and thrown out onto the street. Apparently, Beeman had known what he was doing with this relic.

John arched an eyebrow, pretending that he'd known of its legitimacy all along. "What did you expect?"

Midnite didn't respond but instead took a folded piece of white paper out of his pants pocket, sliding it across the little clear area on the table. John took it, unfolded it, and examined it. There was a name, an address, and a phone number.

John looked up. The sick son of a bitch…

"She'll be waiting for you at seven tonight."

"You're joking," Constantine replied, throwing the paper on the table.

"No, I'm actually very serious. She's good at what she does, John, and she's trustworthy. I guarantee it. And she's all that you're getting."

Perfect. Just what he needed. Cane's little sister.

* * *

**Evelyn:** Thank you. . I had trouble with those… I hate descriptions. -.-" I'm hoping I'm doing them well. :P Thankies on the look. I need it. Blech. At least MCAS is proving to be fairly easy so far. 

**kissed-luck: **Eh, 'bout time Angela faced it all. She's a cop, she'll handle it… more or less. :P Thank ya! I'll try to keep the update frequent!

**Vagrant: **O.O YEEEEEEEK! I'M SO SO SO SO SO SORRY! (Pounces and huggles and showers yousa with candy and Constantine posters) I thought I wrote a response and didn't notice it was the same response and YEEEEEK! T-T I'm SO sorry! But updates should be better now! So woot! Gippalness!

**hersheykisses: **Thank you, on all counts! I've been trying really hard with this fic, and I'm glad it's coming out as well as intended. Thank you thank you thank you! . I hope this update delay didn't injure your sanity, either! Cuz that'd be bad… O.o Do I still get an extra Hershey's kiss:P Pweeeeeeeez? They nummy.

**Slvrbldrain:** Thank ya! . I'm glad you like, and I be sure to keep writing!

**heraldtalia: **O.O Whoa, you're reading this on your lunch break:Feels very honored somehow: You could be eating! Food! Lol I'm hoping you did that as well. Now on to the review response…  
Don't worry, you still managed a lengthy review and that makes Sal a happy Sal. :D It's good to see I managed to show both POVs here, and that my romance-y stuffs is believable. I initially had them go way too fast (as in when I first started writing the fic a long time ago O.o) but luckily I saw the error of me ways… I'm very happy you enjoyed!  
Eh, it's not so much that I have to write as I have to edit and proofread, and now I have to figure out the case. Blech. I don't like police cases. And I'll be DEFINITELY sure to check out your vids, definitely. I love fanmade music vids, and set to CONSTANTINE? HELLZ YEAH! XD I'll tell you what I think ASAP.

**Miyo86:** O.O :Blushes: Thank you! I've tried on alla counts, and I'm happy that I managed to do as I've intended. Hope you continue to like!

**fanficgeek: **I'm glad you like. . And I agree about Chastine… I just don't like it, though I think I've finally found ONE good one.  
Thank ya, on all counts. I tried to do alla afore mentioned, and this fic is basically novel-length, so I'm happy that's not too long and that it goes along with the movie. Those fics that get wrapped up too quickly just confuse me… Real life doesn't work that way, why would the lives of two movie characters? O.o Anyway, I'm glad you like:D  
And I shall definitely check out the site, but it didn't show up when you put it there. is weird and you have to put in spaces and stuff. O.o

**MrSConstantine:** I love 'em too, osm paring. I'm glad you like me fic, and I am here so no stalking:Wags finger: ;) Hope you continue to like!


	9. Investigation and Negotiation

**NEW CONSTANTINE BOARD:** Hey, if any of you guys are interest, DayDreamer731, Van Fanel's Soulmate, Zelda (not so much from this fandom), and yours truly have started a Constantine fanfic board. http // daydreamer731 . proboards46 . com / index . cgi (w/o the spaces, o'course).  
This board will be really great once we get more members and really get rolling, so come on guys, join! You don't JUST have to discuss Constantine, there's a section for pointless randomness and an area for other discussion of and fics for other fandoms as well! So come on, join:P

**A/N1:** **HELP REQUESTED!** Hey guys, if anyone knows anything about homicide investigations, how long it takes, what kind of evidence is gathered, etc, it would be _much_ appreciated if you told me! Otherwise writing this is evil, and the less I know, the longer it'll take me to update. O.o I don't even know till how late at night they work. And if anything in here doesn't sound right, point it out to me and why and I'll fix it.

**A/N2:** Note on John's history: I didn't get any of his history from the "Hellblazer" graphic novels, with the exception of some of his family life. It's all made up, Cane, the whole lot. Just thought I'd clear that up, though you'll have to wait for the next chapter for any of that to really mean anything. :P

**A/N3:** La, here is Part Uno (well Dos if you count the initial crime scene bit) of the investigation, and John's meeting with a new Beeman (sorta). Sadly, no John/Angela in here. You guys have to wait a while. Quite a while, maybe, depending on how I organize the chap.s, but I guarantee y'all, it'll be worth the wait. This chapter, for one, is pretty long, and I'm hoping well to your liking. The next one will be substantially shorter,and the one after that, I'm not sure.So, R&R! 'Member, **reviews encourage me to update faster! **;-) Critique encouraged!

**Me:** (Grumbles) Why can't I know more about how homicide investigations work?  
**Angela:** Just be thankful you've never been a part of one.  
**John: **I can fix that.  
**Angela:** John!  
**John:** (Smirk)  
**Me:** _(squeak!)

* * *

_

**Investigation and Negotiation**

When Angela came into work early that morning, she hid her rather disturbed state as best as she was able. She forced a smile and spoke as infrequently as possible, and only her partner, Xavier Weiss, seemed to notice. Even he gave up on trying to pry it out of her, however; they had work to do. And when it came down to it, to the _real_ work of finding the slaughterer of Alicia Bennet, she was at it faster and more thoroughly than the worst, most efficient OCD patient in the world. Monk, eat your heart out.

The coroner's exam hadn't been completed (or even started) as of yet, and the results of the autopsy were expected sometime within the next two days, depending on how active the various murderers and half-breed influencers of LA had been. Consequently, today, Angela and Weiss were going around and beginning their questioning of friends, family, neighbors: anyone connected to the victim. Those around the crime scene had already been spoken to, and in the absence of required follow-ups, these law-abiding, peaceful citizens would not be bothered again, for all the good questioning them had done in the first place. One spotting of a Caucasian male, age, appearance, and attire unknown, was all the detectives got from those near the alleyway. Nonetheless, as tiny as this clue was, it was still a start. Possibly.

Detectives Weiss and Dodson began to interview. It turned out Alicia had just started going to school again, after taking some time off to work in her chosen field of study: psychology. She'd already received her Bachelor's; now only the Master's was left. She'd been going for a degree in Social Work. This girl had just started to get her life together, and it had been rudely snatched from her.

It didn't justsicken Angela,it pissed her off.

"Did your daughter ever mention anyone bothering her? An older man, maybe?" Angela asked the parents, Stuart and Claire Bennet, sitting together on the white, flower-printed couch before her and Xavier.

The young woman's mother, putting on a brave front even though her hand was shaking as it clasped the heart-shaped, golden locket around her neck, shook her head. "No, no one," her aged, trembling voice responded. "Every-everyone one loves her. No one would want to hurt our baby. Oh God, who'd want to hurt 'Licia? Who'd want-who'd want to hurt our baby?"

The woman choked back a sob, burrowing into her tall husband's side and the warm softness of his tweed coat, taking comfort in having him near and in the arm that he had wrapped snugly around her. She'd reverted to a child-like state, seeking out solace in a hug. Angela wasn't even sure if the fact that it was her husband providing the solace instead of some random acquaintance made any sort of significant difference. She hoped it did.

She looked frail, this Claire Bennet, emaciated even, under the long, loose fabric of her white nightgown. It was as if the death of her daughter had killed a part of her as well, a part not only emotional but physical as well.

It was obvious the news hadn't even sunk in yet for the poor woman; it was obvious that she was expecting her daughter to come traipsing through the door at any moment, telling her mother how huge of a mistake had been made. She'd never died; it had just been a coma, a severe one. But she was fine, perfect, completely, utterly fine.

Sadly enough, it was not to be.

God and the Devil didn't work that way.

"Claire, why don't you go lie down?" her husband, his kindly, brown eyes and professor-like features betraying his sorrow, whispered into his wife's graying blond hair. "I'll join you in a minute."

The woman was in no shape to resist, and did what she was told without complaint, as pliant as a Bendy Wendy doll. Mrs. Bennet got up, her arms wrapped about herself now that his were gone. She dragged her slippered-feet along the floor, covered by a thin, built-in mud-brown rug, and through the doorway at the far side of the room, directly across from the entrance to the apartment. All their money had gone into helping Alicia—even the large apartment Alicia had grown up in—so they didn't exactly live in a palace. The wooden barrier shut tight behind Mrs. Bennet, leaving the woman to her painful solitude until her husband entered to share it with her. But even then, Angela feared the woman would still be alone. Something in her eyes, in the way they were clouded and didn't focus, in the way she spoke and moved and acted with the self-motivation of a dozing druggie. She was lost, and Angela wasn't sure she would ever find her way again. Angela wasn't even sure the woman would be around for much longer, for, whether it was medically possible or not, people like her _did_ die of grief.

It was something both Angela and Xavier, as well as any other man or woman on the force, had seen far too often. Hell, even just _once_ was too often, yet it happened again and again.

"We're very sorry for your loss," Weiss called after her, the words sounding hollow even to him. It didn't even seem to register. In fact, it probably hadn't, and he knew it. But what else could he do?

Her only child, her pride and joy, her mark on the world… dead. Gone, forever. What could you say to someone like that?

The husband seemed to be better off at the moment, able to speak, but give them both a few months, and who knew? In Weiss's opinion, perhaps to let it all out early was better. But maybe he was being an optimist. Both he and his partner knew that it was just as likely that neither the mother nor the father would ever recover, though they might put on a good show before blasting their brains out with a handgun.

Hopefully, it wouldn't come to that for them.

"The man you asked about," Mr. Bennet said, the moment his wife was out of earshot, "there was someone. A teacher at her school, I think. I don't know which one. Was it… I think it was B-something, maybe? Maybe… God, I can't remember…"

Under other circumstances, the timing of his words would have seemed suspicious, but at the moment… At the moment, with his wife in such a state, he was obviously terrified that any mention of a possible murderer from him would send her not just off the deep end but to the very bottom of the pool, where the sickeningly chlorinated, clear blue water would fill her lungs and drown her in a sea of forced sterilization.

They would question her more later, to see if her testimony corroborated her husband's. And in the meanwhile, this seemed like the first concrete lead they had, discounting Dameon.

"Was she having problems with him?" Angela asked.

"I think so. All Alicia would say was that—" His voice cracked, but he swallowed and tried again. "That he'd make her feel uncomfortable, that he acted in a very… a very unbefitting manner. I told her—I told her, if he tried anything, to call me. To call the police. To just… Could he have done it, could he have… have _done_ this to my girl?" He couldn't even say it; he couldn't even say the "k" word.

"We're looking into all possible leads," Weiss answered, carefully steering around the question. He couldn't say anything that would come back to haunt them later.

"We'll get the man who did this," Angela said, not only to reassure the grieving father, but because they _would_.

And although they couldn't make any promises, this professor from the University seemed like a good candidate for the murderer. If they were lucky, he'd be the one; they'd be able to stop him before he killed anyone else. This was good, such an early lead. Very good. With any luck, it would pan out, but neither Angela nor Xavier would allow themselves to rely on this. It was far too early in the case; they didn't even have the autopsy or CSI reports yet.

They were visiting Alicia's best friend next. Hopefully, she'd be able to tell them the name of this stalker professor.

* * *

"A professor bothering her?" Cindy, short for Cinderella—her parents were eccentric and had liked certain leaves and substances a little too much, once upon a time—asked, her brow furrowed together. 

"Yes, did she ever mention it?" Angela asked.

Cindy absentmindedly brushed a strand of strawberry blond hair behind her ear, thinking. "Not that I can remember. At least, I don't think…" She trailed off, looked down at the scuffed floorboards of her small apartment before looking back up at the female detective. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her voice was quiet and strained. It seemed she could hardly bear to think; it seemed she'd forgotten how to, for her own sanity. Had she not, she would have been in absolutely no condition to talk to the police. She would have been in absolutely no condition to help catch her best friend's killer.

"You don't think?" Angela pressed.

"Well, she did sort of, once. But he wasn't really her professor."

"Anyone you can think of is helpful," Weiss assured her.

"Michael Braddock," she said. "He told us he worked there, but he wasn't a member of the faculty, really. He was just an aide, and a pretty bad one. He wasn't even in any of our classes, but he kind of… he kind of came onto 'Licia a few times. Got into her personal space. You don't think he—you don't think he could've done this?"

"It's possible," Angela told her. "We're still looking into all leads." Even supernatural ones.

* * *

Detectives Dodson and Weiss stood outside the apartment door of a Michael S. Braddock, having just rung the doorbell. 

A minute or two passed, and Angela rang again. Still no answer.

"Hello, Mr. Braddock?" Angela called and knocked on the door.

"Mr. Braddock, police!" Weiss called through the door.

Still no answer.

The pair looked at each other.

"Think he's hiding?" Weiss asked.

"Maybe," Angela responded. She tried the doorknob, but it was locked.

The two looked at each other, and they were about to speak when the doorway across the hall opened and a young woman in her early to mid thirties with dyed red hair pulled back in a ponytail, pale, freckled skin, and too much makeup peeked out. It was apparent she'd heard them banging away at the Braddock's door and had looked out to investigate and sate her curiosity, for she wasn't even fully dressed, wearing only a yellow bathrobe. The two detectives turned to face her.

"Are you two looking for Michael?" she asked, her form hidden behind the door, which was held shut by a safety chain.

"Do you know where he is?" Xavier asked.

Angela took out her badge, showed it. "We just need to ask him a few questions."

"Well, he's not here," she informed them.

"Could you tell us when he might be back?"

Braddock's neighbor shook her head. "No idea. All I know is he went off on vacation a week ago. S'posed to be gone for a few more days, I think."

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."

"Are we sure she's not protecting him?" Angela asked later, once they were a sufficient distance away from the woman's apartment.

"Let's ask around," Weiss responded.

And they did, and from those who actually _knew_ something, they got the same response: He'd left five days earlier, and he was going to be gone three or four more.

"He still could have done it," Weiss said. "Say he's leaving, kill the girl, lay low, fly away. It's almost foolproof."

"Yeah," Angela replied, but she was beginning to have her doubts, even if this did make him seem all the more suspicious. When the airline told them that, indeed, Michael Braddock had made his flight eight days ago, and no more since then, these doubts intensified. True, he could have booked another flight with cash, and come and gone that way, but somehow she didn't think so…

It was still very possible he'd been responsible for the crime. Very possible. But Angela was beginning to think they were on the wrong track, and more and more she yearned to learn more from Dameon.

* * *

John Constantine stood outside of a sixth-floor apartment on the upper-side of Los Angeles. The brass number on the door, 663, was just three short of being rather ironic. 

Although not a very smart place to live with all the earthquakes the area experienced, this building was nonetheless one of the nicer places to live, and could only be afforded by the rather well off. Especially these upper-level suites.

This was certainly not a place Constantine was used to finding himself in.

Of course Cane, that legendary, eccentric, deceased man, would have a baby sister living in a place like _this_. Before he'd died that fateful day several years ago, he'd always spoken of his darling sibling, who put up with him and tried oh so very hard to get involved in things far too big for her. He'd always spoken of how she didn't have a shred of special abilities to her name, but how she strived to be a help—or a nuisance—anyway. He'd always spoken with her "foolishness," as he called it, with the most loving tenderness.

Back then, Cane had said that his sister lived in South Carolina. Apparently, she'd relocated.

Beside the door was a white doorbell, and John pressed it, causing a buzzing sound to reverberate throughout the apartment. If Midnite had been telling the truth, he was expected. After all, he was only a few minutes late.

After a short while, footsteps could be heard coming towards the door, and then a deadbolt was unlocked and the doorknob turned. The freshly painted peach-tan door swung inward as far as the security chain would allow, revealing the face of a dark, surfer-girl type woman. She was tall, around 5'8", with cerulean eyes that gave off the illusion of glowing out of the well-tanned skin. Her dirty blond hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, her hair stopping just above the nape of her neck in this style, and a tight, sleeveless, camouflage shirt and black running pants were present on her well-toned figure. From the pale, blue towel around her neck and the light sheen of sweat across her face and arms, it was obvious she'd been exercising.

"Yeah?" she said as a greeting, cocking one eyebrow. This was not exactly what John was expecting. She looked absolutely nothing Cane, who, although also tan, had had green eyes, dark brown hair, and thick, heavy features.

"Are you Carolyn Minnow?" he asked, the last name pronounced like that of the sea creature. He'd learned that the hard was from Cane, once upon a time.

The woman grimaced. "Please, call me Lynn. And I mean that. _Please_, Lynn." Her voice had a distinct Southern accent.

For a moment, the door closed in his face, and he could hear the chain being slid out of its socket. Soon, the door swung open completely, revealing the 32-year old woman.

She did _not_ look 32.

"John Constantine, I presume," she smiled, and stepped back. "Please, come in."

He stepped past her, giving her only a passing glance as he made his way into the room. "And if I'm not?"

"Then I guess I'm screwed, and I don't really appreciate that without my permission."

John said nothing, only gave her a look. All righty then.

The room he entered—only one of five—was spacious: the living room. There was a neon orange couch set against the middle of the lefthand wall, an armchair of the same color directly beside it to John's left. A huge, flatscreen plasma TV was placed on the peach wall directly across from the couch. Two small tables were placed on opposite sides of the couch, a lamp with an apricot shade set on each. _Why_ these lamps were necessary, however, John was having trouble figuring out, since the overhead light on the ceiling was turned on and providing more than enough illumination.

In front of the sofa was a round, freshly polished coffee table, and books—thick, academic-looking volumes—and magazines like _People_ and _Cosmopolitan_ littered its surface. A used glass and plate shared the landscape as well.

On the far wall was a loveseat, part of the same set as the rest of the furniture, and directly behind it and somewhat to the sides were two large windows, shades drawn up and windows open to the abnormally crisp darkness. The distant wail of a police siren floated in along with the fresh night air, yet, by far, the most prominent noise was the upbeat techno music floating in through the doorway beside the television.

Constantine felt as if he'd entered the house of the Little Old Lady who lived in the Fruit Orchard.

Carolyn—or Lynn, as she preferred to be called—shut the door and turned, smiling widely as she leaned against the door, her arms crossed across her chest. She drew one leg up to rest the foot against the door as well.

"So, I hear you're in need of a scholar-smuggler-supplier."

He turned to face her fully. "For the moment."

She let out a breath of air in an almost-laugh and walked past him, splaying herself down on one end of her citrusy couch. "Please, sit. I won't bite." Her eyes moved downward towards his feet, and she grimaced, looking him in the eyes once more. "I'd appreciate it if you took those shoes of yours off, first, though. I rather like my rug peachy-fresh."

Oh yes, this was most _definitely_ the sister of the eccentric, mildly unstable, long-dead Cane.

Constantine smirked, looked down at his shoes, and ignoring her request, he sat down on the opposite end of the couch.

She looked at him with incredulity, her face one-third disbelief, one-third annoyance, and one-third anger. "Well aren't you the picture of manners," she commented sarcastically.

"I don't see a mark on your carpet," he replied, not at all afraid to make eye contact.

Lynn's annoyance grew, but she held it in check.

"So just what can I do for you, Mr. Constantine?" she asked, changing the subject and getting back to the matter at hand.

The techno music from the next room continued to play, and though it both distracted and vexed John somewhat, he ignored it. Instead, he took out his pack of nicotine gum and took out a piece, popping it into his mouth.

"Like you said, I'm in need of someone with certain talents I hear you possess."

"You mean being a bookworm with connections?"

"Something like that."

"Then I suppose I'd be your girl." Lynn drew her legs up and folded them underneath herself, rotating her body 90 degrees to face him. "So what are you offering?"

"Not so fast," he responded. "First, what are your qualifications?"

She cocked an eyebrow. "Does fluency in French, Italian, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and God knows what other dead languages count? How about more money than I know what to do with?"

Huh… sounded good.

John was impressed, although he couldn't be sure she was telling the truth.

"Can you prove it?"

"_Mais oui, monsieur. Ce n'est pas difficile."_

John recognized her words as, indeed, French, but that proved nothing.

"I'll need more than that."

"And I would be delighted to provide such."

"What about the Bible, both of them? And the Balance, the Rules? Know anything about them?"

She looked at him as if he were especially special among a roomful of special. She looked at him as if he had an IQ in the negatives.

"Um, yes. Obviously."

Cocky girl.

"So you can See?" He already knew the answer to this, but he asked anyway, to test her honesty.

Her expression shifted instantly, and Lynn gave a nervous smile and averted her eyes downward for a moment. "I was waiting for that. No, I'm afraid I'm blind as Ray Charles in that respect. But Cane wasn't, and believe you me, I learned a lot from him. I learned a lot myself."

Good, she wasn't a liar or a con artist, like he could easily be. Very good. This meant she could very easily be trustworthy.

John proceeded to test her on the some of the basics—half-breeds, Midnite's, even basic Christian knowledge—and she passed with flying colors. He asked about her contacts, suppliers of relics and artifacts. Her list, obscure but in a believable way, was substantial.

Eventually, the two came to the most important aspect of every job: the salary.

Assuming she was being truthful about all of her qualifications that was.

"Two hundred," was his initial offer.

Her answer was simple.

"Per month, correct? Er, no."

"No?"

"I'm not cheap, Constantine."

"Two-ten."

"Nope."

Oh, for the love of…

"Two-thirty."

"Try three-fifty."

"Three-fifty," he repeated skeptically.

"That's what I said."

"I own a bowling alley," he told her, thereby informing her of his sole source of income.

Not counting relics he sold, that was. And not counting more than a few cons he pulled off.

"Yeah, and I'm filthy rich and own nada but this apartment and my ass. Sucks to be you, doesn't it?" You had to love inheritances.

John thought it over for a minute. "Fine, three-fifty."

She cocked her head, as if contemplating. "Three-fifty, three-fifty… hmmm…" It was then that Carolyn burst out laughing, bending over from the force of her amusement. It took her a few minutes to compose herself, because every moment it seemed as if she'd calmed down, she'd look him and a fresh onslaught of giggling would seize her. She was like a preteen girl with a secret.

John didn't bother to watch her this whole time and turned away at some point, towards the television and windows, waiting for this to stop. Did he _really_ have to put up with this shit? It was irritating.

"Sorry, sorry," she managed at last, and thereby drew his attention back to her. She managed to suppress all but a few final chuckles. "Constantine, you always were one of Cane's favorites."

Gee, well wasn't that good to know. Especially since it was very much his fault that Cane, along with the others, had died.

"I'm rolling in cash; does it _look_ like I need three-fifty a month?" He said nothing, but kept his eyes on hers. "What was that you said at first? Two hundred? Make that two-fifteen, and you have yourself a deal there, sonny-boy. After all, I don't do charity cases, funny ones or no."

Barely any time passed before he responded. "Deal."

The two stood and she offered her hand; they shook on it.

* * *

**MrSConstantine:** Lol, aw, and I so wanted a stalker. :P And thank ya, I'm glad you like. Hope you liked this one too. (Huggles Chas and Constantine) No disses to 'em whatsoever. I luvvle 'em, just… not in a Chastine way. O.o 

**Evelyn: **(Huggles the Angela) Stalking half-breeds are evil. Literally. O.o And yes, John and Angela are funny and in semi-denial, but they're KEWT. :P And Midnite is fun to write as well… as is listening to the Constantine soundtrack period. Love it, though I wish "Passive" (the song from the club) was on it.

**DayDreamer: **LOL! You've hit the underplot of my fic on the head… Angela… is… stupid… (I love you, Angie! **Angela:** (Glare) ) You know, I never even thought of that sensing thing, tho' that could have been cute… Damn, it would've been fun to write too, if only it could have worked. Lol Eh, don't worry, you'll get plenty of John/Angela fluff and smut. Hell, you already got some of it, woman!

**fanficgeek: **Eh, don't worry about it. That's how I tried to link to my freewebs website originally. O.o And I watched the videos already. I love 'em. Where's heraldtalia and her reviewing self? I want to tell her how great those vids are!  
Thank ya on the descriptions. I'm trying hard on those. O.o Glad to know I'm doing a good job. As always, if anything isn't working somehow, just tell me!

**Vagrant:** I'm here to amuse. :P Hehehe mysterious plot twists… (Shifty eyes)

**SlvrBldRain: **Thank ya. XD Aw sad, no detailed rant, tho'. ;-) And Cane… well, he was mentioned briefly at the end of chapter 3, one of those killed that day when everything sorta feel apart. Sorry, I know I didn't really mention him much before. (Just the once, in fact.)

**Miyo86:** Gippalai! (Dances) I'm happy my fic continues to be good. :D And I'm sorry about the waiting! I wish I could speed it up for you:P But I need time for feedback and editing and hw. ;-)


	10. Dark and Dangerous

**A/N1:** OK, this here chapter is shorter than the previous one, but I think it works best as a stand-alone. No John here, but you get some nice Angela/Dameon interaction. Tell me what you think. Remember to R&R, **critique encouraged**! Reviews encourage me to update, and maybe if I get a bunch early on, I update faster! ;-) Plus, they help me see where I'm doing well and where I should improve to make this better for you guys, so… **review!** :P

**A/N2:** Yeah, so I was going to update this on Monday but since was DOWN... -.-" So yeah, here you guys go... Enjoy!

**Dameon:** Hey, you make me out to be some sort of perv!  
**Me and Angela:** You _are_ some sort of perv!  
**Dameon:** Well in that case…  
**Me: **O.O  
**Dameon:** (Begins to approach)  
**Me: **_Meep!_  
**Angela:** (Begins to draw her gun)  
**John:** (Steps in front of Dameon) Don't even think about it, asshole.  
**Dameon:** (Takes out playing cards) But I just wanted to play Go Fish! T-T

**:Special Thanks to Daydreamer731 for betaing:  
****

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**

**Dark and Dangerous**

Angela drove her black SUV up in front of her apartment building, but as was usual this late at night, all the spaces were taken. Sighing, she continued to drive until she was further down the street, and there, she found a spot. After pulling off a difficult parallel-park—something she hated to do but was more than used to—she got out of her car, grabbing her purse from the passenger's side seat. Walking around the SUV to the sidewalk, she wasn't paying attention to her surroundings but concentrating on putting her keys in her purse. However, this only took her a few seconds, and by the time she reached the curb, she was closing her pocketbook back up. Taking the black elastic out of her hair, Angela glanced up in time to see a figure up ahead.

But she could not make out who or what this figure was.

It seemed the only two streetlights in the area that were broken were the ones directly in front of her building, and there the figure stood, obscured in shadow.

Her hand paused in midair, and she narrowed her eyes. Gradually spreading her fingers to get the elastic around her wrist, she slowed in her step.

She made sure not to reach for her gun.

Nonetheless, she _did_ slide her hand across the area of her holster as she slung the purse over her shoulder. She was comforted by the firearm's presence.

Although she was on high alert, she made certain to give off a calm appearance, but she did not fluff out her hair, as she usually would have done. It would get in her way if she did that. Putting it up again after just having taken it down would seem suspicious, too.

Instead, she merely continued to walk down the faded gray sidewalk at a renewed fast pace, past cars of all shapes and sizes on one side of her and tall, city apartment buildings on the other. The figure didn't move, and gradually, he came more and more into focus. Angela could now make out the dark shoulder-length hair and somewhat lanky build, and every ounce of instinct she had was telling her—no, _screaming _at her like a banshee on steroids—that this was Dameon.

Yet just as she started to get close, he melted away, or in other words, turned sideways and walked into the alleyway between her building and the one beside it.

"Stop right there!" she called after a moment's hesitation, shifting instantly from a speedy walk to an all-out run. "Police!" She bolted down the street, vehicles and walls flying by as her legs pumped away. Loose strands of hair flew in her face, obscuring her vision over and over again, and her shoes pounded against the pavement as she got closer and closer to the alleyway. Upon rounding the corner she could see the figure—Dameon, it _had_ to be—walking towards the very end of the alley, towards the chain link fence at its end. There, he stopped.

Perfect. He was trapped.

"Who are you?" she called, just in case it wasn't him. Just for formalities, really. "Why are you hanging around here?"

They were both in complete darkness, but had they both been mortal, she would have had the upper hand, assuming he was unarmed. It wasn't exactly easy to miss with a gun in a target area this small—especially not when you were an excellent shot with psychic aid—but she wasn't about to go trigger-happy. Not without provocation.

Besides, what if this really wasn't him?

Unlikely, and she was almost 99.9 percent certain that it was…

But there was always the 0.1 percent chance that she was wrong.

And besides that, even if it _were_ Dameon, what good would a gun do? She'd seen the effect bullets had on the undead: none. Maybe if she started having her ammo blessed and dipped in holy water?

Sure, that'd happen.

From in front of the 12-foot high chain link fence, the figure turned towards her, but said nothing. Angela could still make out nothing but his build and hair, that inklike, somewhat wavy, shoulder-length hair. The clothing he wore, just a pair of pants and a shirt, blended in with the blackness of the night.

She could barely make him out, but luckily her eyes were adjusting to the darkness, albeit slowly. They were taking their own, sweet, tortoise-like time.

She couldn't walk quickly, couldn't move hastily towards her target. She needed to buy time for her pupils to dilate, for her gray eyes to actually _work_ in this lighting, or absence thereof. She needed to be able to _see_.

Angela stepped forward, placing her hand on her gun.

"I'm not going to ask you again. Who are you and what are you doing here?"

This time, the figure did answer, and from his voice, any and all doubt was eliminated; this was Dameon.

"Am I doing something wrong, detective?" the taunting voice of the half-breed asked. "I was just taking a walk; I didn't know that was against the law."

Angela paused, trying to plan her next move. "What are you doing here, Dameon?" she asked again, completely avoiding his question with one of her own. It was a tactic that oftentimes worked.

"Taking a walk. Didn't I just say that?"

"In the alley?"

Angela could just make out his shoulders shrugging, and only now did she start to see that reddish glow. That reddish glow of HHHell, shining right out of his eyes.

"I like alleys. They have a certain allure to them. But again, I didn't know that was a crime? Am I in trouble for my love of dark, private, dangerous places? Hey, wasn't that girl found in an alley?" Neither the threat nor the taunt was lost on Angela.

Dameon stepped forward, and she almost found herself taking an equally large step back.

Angela tightened her grip on her gun. "Who killed her, Dameon?" she demanded, very quietly.

The half-breed took another step forward, and the detective could have sworn she saw the crimson glow brightening, like embers flickering into a full-blown bonfire. Had she been able to fully see him, the demonic grin on his lips would have been unmistakable. "How would I know?"

"You influenced him."

"How do you know it's a 'he'?"

"How would you know if it wasn't?"

He chuckled, and this was not a comforting, warm laughter, but instead cruel and sadistic. It sent shivers of aversion, disgust, and fear down Angela's spine, pinpricking through her whole body. "Why, naturally, I don't."

"Stop the games, Dameon," she said coldly.

"You know what, fine. I think I will."

Dameon shot forward toward her like a viper striking a poor, defenseless little mouse. Angela was quick to react and drew her gun, pointing it at him and turning the safety off in an instant. He wasn't at all fazed, and Angela fired. Although the bullet entered him, it had no effect. A second shot followed, with the same result, and then Dameon had her against the cold, rough wall.

Someone had to have heard. Someone had to have heard. They _had_ to have.

But if they had, they would not be making an appearance. Angela was on her own.

"That kinda hurt," he breathed into her hair, panting like a pervert watching kiddie porn, his cheek grazing hers. He felt slimy, almost scaly with a hint of prune, and he stunk of rotten eggs. His arms were off to either side of her, trapping her, and since his body was pressed up against hers, ducking under them was made close to impossible.

"I can make it hurt worse," she replied, jerking her head to the side and pushing him away with one hand. With the other, she jammed the head of the gun barrel against his chest.

"Careful," he whispered, pressing forward once more. "You might make me mad." Had his lower body been any more up against her, Angela was fairly certain she would _not_ have liked what she felt.

"That would be _such_ a tragedy," she countered.

Angela knew the danger of the position she was in; she recognized it for what it was. But to show weakness now would be the worst thing she could possibly do.

Damn it, why had she taken the amulet off? _Why_? Just because John had told her to wear it just for the night didn't mean she couldn't have kept it _on _afterwards.

Dameon sneered and licked the side of her face—was it just her imagination, or was his tongue forked beneath the mortal façade?—closing his eyes and taking in the scent of her, especially of her hair. It was one of the most repulsive things Angela had ever felt, as if she were nothing but a rump of meat being sampled for the butcher's block. She flinched away, tightened her grip on the useless firearm and moved it downwards, pointing it at that special spot between any man's legs.

"Get off me," she ordered, her voice low and threatening. "Half-breed or not, I doubt your dick would grow back."

A small ripple of fear went through Dameon. Was she right? He didn't know; he'd never _been_ in this position before. No one had ever threatened to shoot off his private parts post-mortem.

His body was more metaphysical than anything else, true, and gunshots anywhere else didn't affect him.

But still…

What would happen if he were shot _there_? Why didn't he doubt that the result would be anything but good?

And on top of that, he recognized her for the powerful psychic she was. He could sense it, feel the hidden pools of untapped power and ability radiating off of her in fierce waves. Now that she was cornered, this power felt stronger, stronger than what he'd felt at the crime scene and in the club combined.

Couldn't this power somehow merge with her weapon and actually injure him?

All in all, it excited the _fuck_ out of him, but he didn't let his passions rule his head, at least not _that_ head. He wasn't stupid.

Dameon's caution betrayed him. It was more than possible she had something up her sleeve; she'd had the amulet before, hadn't she?

After nuzzling her cheek one last time, Dameon backed away, that sneer a seemingly permanent fixture upon his face. He had to resist a strong urge to run his hands up and down her body, for that would certainly have sent both her and her gun off.

Angela placed a second hand upon her weapon, and she straightened her arms out, taking careful aim, but the rest of her stood stock-still, her eyes moving up and boring into what could be made out of his in the blackness.

"I'll be seeing you again, Angela," he said smoothly, and it was obvious this was not an empty threat. Then, after one final glare from his demonic eyes, he turned and walked away, out of the alleyway and onto the street.

Angela stood still, breathing hard as she watched him, her arms falling downward, but she did not let go of her gun. Her eyes followed his progress out of the alleyway, and they continued to be fixed on the spot where she'd seen him last.

He was gone. For now.

* * *

**Vagrant:** lol Yeah, I DO watch Law and Order, so that's where I'm getting most of this from. I'm seriously going to be forced to sit down and watch several episodes in a row… (Sweatdrop)

**Evelyn:** WOOOT reviewing! Not so sure if during history class is good, though, although I can't say I'm complaining. ;-) Having neon orange furniture WOULD be osm. (Glomps the Lynn) Happy to see you like my cocky gal.

**DayDreamer: **(Shakes head) You're a snog whore… not in that way! O.o But yes… Here's the chappie you saw various snippets of. Tell me, is she still less stupid? Hehe, and Lynn's fun. Now YOU, work on YOUR snog scene! Nownownownownow! No more o' mine till I get yours:P And rambling s good. I like rambling reviews. :P

**Kirie: **ROFLOLLAHBHATWBICSH! I love you… (Glomp) Thank ya on the c/c. I fixed everything but the "someone" thing. I can't really change that. O.o Glad to see it's going well, tell me watcha think of the next bit, oh Great One Who I Annoy With Constantine on an Hourly Basis.

**Miyo86: **(Hugs back) Being funny is fun! XD As is writing. Isa ish happy that you like me funniness (hey, funniness is a word… wow O.o) and writing. But I'm afraid there's still a whiles left till the prologue… But we'll get there! And come on and join, join, join! And post! No one posts! We need posters! We don't bite! Much…

**SlvrBldRain: **Eh, you're allowed some non-rants, though when you think some up, feel free to put up in ze review. :P I vaguely watch American Idol. I was UBER angry about Constantine. -.-" Glad to see my case seems semi-realistic, or TV-show realistic anyway. Lol Hoping ya likethed this chap, since it didn't really have any of the actual case case. :P

**fanficgeek:** WOOOOT long review ! (Glomp) O.o wow, I do all of that that well? Awesome! (Dances) Characters (personality/thought/etc.-wise) are me specialty, so it's good to know I'm not losing my touch with that. Glad to see yousa liked that line, too. John's fun to write. He's so sarcastic and cynical… And WOOT, I made someone have a reaction to me writing, i.e. smile! And feel grief (though that's not as happy). I must be semi-pretty-good. :P Hoping this chap is up to thy standards as well!


	11. Imitation

**A/N1:** Sorry it took me so long to review. I've been working on Constantine music videos. So far, I've got four. Wow, it takes freaking HOURS upon HOURS to make these things. (Sweat drop). Anyone wants to see them, just tell me in the review and I can email 'em. (Sorry, nowhere I can really host them online.) You guys can feel free to delete them right after, if you like, but if you see 'em, tell me what you think.

**A/N2:** As always, guys, don't forget to R&R. Special treat for y'all in this chap, after all… Chas:D Critique encouraged and appreciated:P

**Chas:** About time I showed up.  
**John:** What, kid, were you feeling left out?  
**Chas:** Better than hauling your ass around town.  
**John:** Better than getting smacked into a ceiling.  
**Chas:** Oooh, low blow, John.

**-Special Thanks to Daydreamer731 for betaing and the title-

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**

**Imitation**

The following day was just about as uneventful as the previous for John Constantine. He woke up, decided he couldn't put off food-shopping any longer, went to the store, brought the groceries home, and went to the gym. Not every day was full of horror and adventure in the life of an exorcist, or whatever the hell he was. Plus, with Beeman, Chas, and Hennessy dead, there really wasn't much he _could_ do. Not really. Not unless he wanted to go and spend some time with tombstones. Yeah, that sounded like a good time.

But… there was _one_ other thing he could do, yet Constantine wasn't really sure if he wanted to do that just yet.

He wasn't really sure if he wanted to see Chas in his half-breed form.

To confront the fact that the kid was dead because of him in such a brazen manner, and to confront the fact that he was now one of _them_…

Constantine wasn't sure if even he was _that_ strong _or_ masochistic.

Early in the evening, he finally made up his mind.

He was going to go to the Theological Society Gabriel had so loved to frequent. He was going to pay his ex-apprentice a visit.

John _knew_ Chas would be there.

With the sun hidden behind skyscrapers and other tall, dead, manmade buildings, the sky looked bleak and gray, the city lights almost completely blocking out the reds, yellows, and oranges of sunset behind a dull haze. It was almost as if the entirety of the sky had been pumped full of cigarette smoke, a miasma far more permanent than the slowly disintegrating ozone. And it seemed that soon this smoke would devour the ethereal lights of the heavens and leave nothing but gray in its wake.

More than used to this, John took absolutely no notice as he got into the taxicab, put it into drive, and moved the vehicle out into the street after popping a fresh stick of nicotine gum into his mouth.

It was about a 15-minute ride. The car cruised across asphalt, past concrete and the homeless and small corner stores. As he approached his destination, his surroundings steadily improved but this was, nevertheless, downtown Los Angeles. It wasn't exactly Beverly Hills, and it wasn't going to look as if it were.

Disregarding the nearby 7-Eleven and gas station, he parked his car directly in front of the smooth, concrete steps that led up to the entrance of the Theological Society. Getting out of the taxi, he walked around and stepped onto the curb, spitting the gum out of his mouth and into the gutter. Now that nicotine was no longer being pumped into his system, John took a moment to just stand in place, looking at the building before him. It was a large structure, with ornately carved wooden doors marking the entrance. To either side of these doors were imitation-marble, gray-white columns built up against the imitation-marble, gray-white wall. Not real marble, of course not. But imitation. It was all imitation, somehow, an imitation of the Truth, of the Rules, of posterity. Ever since he'd stopped Mammon's demon reign, Constantine had stopped caring about this hypocrisy quite so much.

But he did still care. It did still bother him.

As usual, he tried to ignore it, and this was made that much easier when he spotted a "woman" walking by on his right. Sensing something strange about her, yet something very familiar, he instinctively turned and watched her. At the same moment, she turned around to face him.

It wasn't just the large red stain or small bullet-hole it was surrounding that made her seem strange. There was something off about her, something unnatural. Her very skin seemed wrong; it was solid, yes, but not _solid_ solid. There was just the slightest twinge of transparency about it, but not really, for she was as clearly there as the sidewalk. Perhaps the lighting contributed to this, for a different source seemed to illuminate her than anything else in the vicinity; this difference wasn't obvious, she was most definitely still in the shadows of the setting sun, along with everything else… But still, she was somehow more clear, yet not. Somehow her features were just that much sharper, her colors that much more vibrant… Yet had it been noontime, she would have seemed duller than anything else around her.

And there was the sticky, still-wet burgundy stain on her chest.

John hated ghosts. They were rare, but they were still there… and they could be trouble.

This one, however, was not. Instead, she seemed like one of the Hopeless, the Forgotten, those doomed to wander for one reason or another, overlooked accidentally or on purpose by both God and the Devil.

As she turned away from him, a haunted look on her not-right visage, he felt as if he should have, well, _felt_ more than he did. He should have been sorry for her, or his heart gone out to her. Something.

Yet he'd stopped feeling sympathy for ghosts long ago, at least ones he didn't know. With the number of people that he lost in his life on a regular basis, to feel for the Unknown Dead on top of it all would have been too much. There was only so much one man could take.

After mounting the steps, he walked up to the double doors and pulled one open.

The change from outside to inside was immediate. This was not one of the poorer Church-run facilities. Instead, it was quite obviously wealthy, if the imitation marble hadn't already been a clue-in. Money was evident in every crevice, in the second pair of imitation-marble-ringed doors that followed the first, in the walkway through the middle of the room that followed them, in the red carpet that spanned it, in every single neatly filled bookshelf placed to either side of this room. Constantine figured he must have looked like one hell of a celebrity, shaking out his coat once before walking down this road of recognition that movie stars so adored.

Doors were seen at the ends of some of the book aisles, no doubt leading to rooms just as splendid. At the far end of this particular room, however, was a large fireplace, just as tall if not taller than a grown man, and two plush, cocoa brown armchairs surrounding a well polished, circular table placed before the flames.

There, just as Gabriel had once been, was Chas, standing directly in front of the fireplace. But instead of having his back to John, he was facing him with his arms crossed and a smirk on his lips, yet somehow a warm one. His hair was just as much of a curly, somewhat disorderly brown mess as ever, his skin just as lightly tanned. His outfit, strangely enough, hadn't changed either. Chas still wore his skunk hat, the colors inverted with white on the sides and a black stripe going down the middle, like a baseball cap but too puffy and unified. A cabby's hat. On his legs was an everyday pair of jeans, and underneath his thin black sweater Chas had on a collared, beige shirt. Atop this, he had his olive-green coat.

Behind Chas's back, John could easily see charcoal-gray wings spreading out, rivaling those of a bald eagle in majesty.

The similarities between Angel-Chas and Angel-Gabriel were disturbing, to say the least, although really, only the building they were in and the wings were the same.

As usual, one of the younger priests, a 23-year-old man with jet black hair, a fair complexion, and brown eyes, dressed according to his position, came up and kindly asked if Mr. Constantine would like him to take his coat.

And again, as usual, Mr. Constantine declined.

The young priest walked away, and John was left with Chas.

"Hey, John," the new half-breed greeted. "I was wondering when you were going to visit."

"Hey, kid," he responded.

"So aren't you goin' to ask me what it's like bein' an angel, John?"

John smirked. "How is it being an angel?"

Chas shrugged. "Well, I don't have to drive you around everywhere every second anymore."

Constantine moved forward to stand beside the armchair to his left. "I thought you liked tagging along."

"Sure, John."

Constantine chose this moment to sit down. The chair wasn't as comfortable as it looked and was, in fact, too stiff. Typical.

"How are you, John?" Chas asked, the flickering flames causing his wings to stand out even more starkly against the brick and carved white marble set around the fireplace.

The half-angel didn't receive a straight answer. "Shouldn't you already know that?" John asked, leaning forward with his forearms on his thighs.

"I do."

"So you've been watching me too." Just like Gabriel had once watched him, although with Chas, this really didn't seem at all odd. Yet the similarity was still eerie.

"Come on, John. I have to watch you a _little_. You can't blame me there."

"Actually, I could."

"Yeah, I guess you could, John, if you really wanted to. But what would be the point?"

Constantine didn't answer. Instead, he sat back in his seat and spoke on another subject. "So, am I still doomed to Hell?" Although he seemed utterly nonchalant, as laid back as a teenage surfer, the question itself was serious. It was a question that had been haunting him, ever since Satan had prevented his ascension to Heaven. Was his suicide really cancelled out? Were his other sins? Did he really have a clean slate? Could he get into Heaven, and did he still need to try to buy his way through the Pearly Gates?

He _thought_ he was now once more on the starting line, practically a newborn babe, but since when did the higher powers ever give a damn about what he or any other mortal felt or wanted?

"You know I can't tell you that, John. You know I can't know where you'll end up now."

"So it's true? I really have started over."

"Yeah, you have. Congratulations. It must be new, at least for you it must be. How is it, anyway, not knowing where you're going?"

John leaned forward again, countering with "How is it knowing exactly where you _are_?" He was a master at evading questions.

Chas paced around a bit as he answered. "I like it. It's nice up there, really nice, but I'm back now. I'm back for a reason, John, and there's still some mystery in it. You can't live without a little mystery, right?" He sounded almost unsure of himself, almost like the old Chas Kramer… Almost. But not quite. This was a Chas who knew more, who was more at peace, less nervous, more confident and mature. This was a half-angel who'd been to Heaven and back, instead of to Hell and back like the mortal John Constantine.

Chas took a few steps forward, his hands in his pockets. "Actually, I need a favor."

Did he now? "A favor?"

"I need to drive the cab again."

John stood. "Isn't that dangerous?" he asked, stepping forward. Yet he made sure to not get into Chas's personal space, as he was prone to do with most everybody. He still wasn't fully comfortable with this new situation, with Chas as a half-breed, with this blatant reminder of his past failures. "Not to mention against the rules." With everyone believing Chas to be dead, seeing him return like Christ resurrected wasn't exactly a good idea, not to mention unheard of. You were dead, and that was that. If you returned as a half-breed, you needed to have a new identity, a new life. You couldn't just come back as if nothing was happened, especially not if your grave was in a public cemetery and your friends were well aware of your departure to that great train station beyond the edge of the tracks.

"The Man Upstairs thinks it's a good idea for me to baby-sit you again," Chas informed him. "I'll drive the cab just like I used to, and you'll have your slave or apprentice or whatever I was back. I'll avoid my old friends and apartment. Besides, who's gonna spot one cabdriver in L.A. anyway?"

He had a point there, but that fact was, at the moment, irrelevant to John. God wanted Chas to be driving him around in that taxi again? Fuck it all, why couldn't they leave him alone? Did he _always_ need a half-breed on his tail?

Yet he also couldn't help but detect the grim humor in the situation. And, as much as he hated to admit it, he'd missed having the little pest around.

He smirked, letting out a breath of a laugh. "Lu' must love that."

Chas paused before responding, choosing his words carefully, though you couldn't tell by the speed with which he spoke. "He's getting his own perks out of the deal."

John instantly perked up, suspicious, and moved forward again. "What kind of perks?"

"You're alive again, aren't you?" Chas pointed out.

Although this _did_ sound like a good enough reason, Constantine had a feeling there was something more. Maybe he was being paranoid—this _was_ Chas, after all—but he just didn't buy it.

"What aren't you telling me, Chas?" he asked softly, his eyes boring into the younger man's soft, teddy bear ones. He walked forward once more, most _definitely_ in the kid's personal space now, awkwardness and guilt forgotten in the midst of a new plot. Chas had never been one to keep secrets, especially from him. Their relationship had always worked the other way around.

His hands once more in his pockets, Chas stepped around his once-idol and turned back only once he was a sufficient enough distance away. He didn't hesitate to meet John's gaze. "So can I drive the cab again, John?" he asked, changing the subject entirely, "pulling a Constantine," as it were. "It's yours now, so I can't just take it."

John waited a few seconds before responding, his mind working overtime. In the end, he decided not to press on the matter. Chas was a half-breed now, and that meant something crucial in him had changed. If it were possible to get whatever he was hiding out of him, subtlety would work better than direct confrontation. Hence, he'd need to try asking him later in a less obvious way. It wasn't as if it would be hard now, either; he'd be seeing him daily.

"Sure, kid. It was yours first."

Chas smiled, a truly sincere smile. "Thanks, John."

"No problem." John began to move towards the exit. He stopped only a few feet down the red carpet, twisting his upper body around to face Chas. "Are you starting now, or later? If it's now, let's go. I'm not waiting around for your flying, angelic ass." John couldn't even see the wings anymore. They were drawn back, and the fact that he didn't really _feel_ like seeing them certainly helped.

"Why not? I've had to wait around in the cab for your exorcising, ass," Chas countered, but he moved forward so that he could stand beside Constantine. "Lead on, John." They were halfway down the aisle when Chas spoke again, since the older man hadn't said one word. Typical Constantine. "How's Angela, John?"

Constantine faltered in his step for a moment, turning his face to look at his ex-driver-become-driver again. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. I noticed you two were getting buddy-buddy before, right?" Although his manner was rather silly and teasing—Chas might has well have winked and lightly elbowed him—John had another one of those feelings that told him there was more going on than met the eye.

He decided to play along, to pretend to buy the innocent act. "Right." His voice was emotionless, not giving a definite response one way or the other. He wasn't very convincing, either, and no doubt his suspicion was as palpable as his right hand. Even to a non-half-breed without the ability to read surface thoughts. Good thing John was a master at putting up psychic shields.

But Chas chose to play along as well. After all, it wasn't as if he _wanted_ John to buy his act. In truth, he wanted John to pick up on it and dig deeper, much deeper. He wanted John to go see Angela right now, to see how she was and what was happening to her himself.

If he didn't, only God knew what would happen. Literally.

What was happening at that moment, though, and what had happened the previous night and the nights soon following, Chas was very much aware of, and he was very much of the opinion that John should be as well.

For both John and Angela's sakes.

* * *

**Evelyn:** Yick, finals, I've got those coming up. I empathize. Glad yousa likethed me chappie. Sorry it took so long for an update. O.o Hope you like this one!

**kissed-luck: **This one's a little longer. Hope you like. :P

**MrSConstantine: **It's otay, don't worry about it. You reviewed the next one, and hopefully are going to review this one. :P And it's not your fault was being evil. It does that sometimes. -.-" And don't worry, J/A WILL be there.

**SlvrBldRain: **(Huggles the Constantine from American Idol) He did NOT deserve to be kicked off so early… And more FBI-type police scenes coming up in very next chappie, so you don't have to wait long, dontcha worry.

**Miyo: **Yis, but lots of John in this one. No Angela, sadly… A few more chapters (2 or 3 tops) before them interaction, but trust me, it'll be worth the wait. And yis, more Damon coming up too.

**Daydreamer:** (Takes away toilet paper tube) Eh, it's otay. You did remember. And yes, you CAN say how much you love this fic, and I'm glad you do. And you DID make a love scene turn out BEAUTIFUL, so hush up, you:P But don't really… I wish I could get online more today but stupid finals. -.-"


	12. That Going to Hell Thing

**A/N1:** BAH, wow, this was an evil wait for an update, I know. But I actually have a valid reason. I had Finals, and I figured not failing took slight precedence over my fic. I know, blasphemy. In my next update, I'll give you all links to my vids so any of you guys who wanted to see them can. I would now but it'd take too long to put them back on and I figure you guys want your update. :P So here it is, without further ado… And long, too! XD So R&R, and remember, **critique encouraged**!

**Angela:** Well this case is going well…  
**Me:** You get so easily discouraged in it!  
**Angela:** I don't _usually_.  
**Dameon:** (Scoffs) As if I'd affect your work _that_ much. I mean, all I did was press you against an alley wall…  
**John:** Dameon… run.  
**Dameon:** O.O Meep!

* * *

**That Going-to-Hell-Thing**

Her work consumed Angela that day, just as it always did. If you were a serious cop, it always would, especially in Homicide.

Michael Braddock was brought in immediately from New Mexico, but with all the trouble of working with the other state and shipping him via airline, it was already late, _late_ afternoon—almost evening—when he arrived. The Medical Examiner's report wasn't ready yet, either, although the CSI report found some interesting things. There were no fingerprints at the crime scene, which might or might not have suggested premeditation. Fibers of a tweed coat and two strands of short, blond hair _had_ been found, however. Also, it was a definite that Alicia Bennet had _not_ been killed in that alleyway but brought in afterwards, stashed there.

Original.

While the other two members of the Homicide Group, two lieutenants, went over and over the evidence and what could be learned from forensics, Detective Steven Cambell, from the Sex Crimes division, saw to the results of the rape kit—conducted earlier on the victim. In the meanwhile, Detectives Angela Dodson and Xavier Weiss questioned Braddock.

There seemed to be nothing.

"I told you, I was with my parents," he said to Angela for what must have been the twentieth time. "I've been there for almost a week. Now, unless I'm being charged with something, can I _please_ get the _fuck_ out of here?"

From behind the two-way mirror, the Captain, a man in his late 60's with graying hair and a thick build, spoke. "Can we charge him?"

"The parents back up his alibi," Weiss answered, watching his partner work from behind the glass.

"Parents aren't always known for their truthfulness in these matters."

"The neighbors back him up too. It looks like he really wasn't here."

Afterwards, Angela said to the Captain, Stephen Mallaine, and Weiss, "I don't think he did it." Not only was there his somewhat shaky alibi, but also the fact that Angela had seen guilty men before, plenty of them. She could _feel_ when a man was guilty, and not solely because of her experience with deadly criminals. Her psychic abilities often clued her in. Braddock just didn't have the traces of influence surrounding him.

This guy wasn't who they were looking for.

"Go back over everything," Mallaine ordered. "Look at what you might've overlooked. There's always something."

They tried Cindy again first.

Sitting in a fetal position on her fruit-punch-red, leather look-alike couch, she looked up at the detectives, standing before her like a grim, weathered, unbreakable brick wall. "Look, I told you everything I know."

There was a lost look about her, and there were faded gray rivers painted down her cheeks—eyeliner that had run and then refused to wash off.

"We just thought there might be something, anything you missed," Angela said.

"Anything you could tell us, anything at all, would help," added Weiss.

"She was my best friend," Cindy said, her voice breaking, tears breaking out of her eyes like prisoners from a federal detention center. She stood, trying to be strong even as she hugged herself, looking small and lost in a baby blue pajama set of a cotton tank top and satin, lace-edged capris. "Don't you think I'd tell you everything I knew? What the hell do you take me for?"

Apparently, she was nearing the anger stage of grief.

"Miss Cabot, Cindy, we know you're hurting," Angela said, taking a step forward and putting her hand out in a placating motion. "I just lost my sister a little over a month ago, and I know what you're going through. But especially at times like this, it's easy to miss things. Please, think. If there's anything, anything you can think of, tell us."

Cindy smiled bitterly. "Was your sister murdered?" Neither of the two detectives said a word.

Sighing, she brushed a strand of clean, brushed hair out of her face. Apparently, caring for herself helped keep her mind off of her loss. She walked over to the side, her head angled downwards, and then turned her face to them. "Look, there was nothing, ok? Nothing. Nada. Zip. Fucking zippo. If there _was_ something, I'd tell you. But other than that Braddock guy and work, she was a _happy _girl."

Work? Well, it was something…

* * *

Alicia had worked at McDonalds, a crappy job but a job nonetheless. Her parents and grandmother had supplied her with a lot of money, so it wasn't as if she'd been short on cash, exactly. It had been more like an "extra spending money" sort of job, the kind only the mid-to-upper middle class got. The rest either needed the work to live or couldn't be bothered.

"Welcome to McDonalds, how may I help you?" a falsely enthusiastic, teenage voice asked as soon as Angela and Xavier were at the register. She was one of two cashiers on duty, with her brown hair up in a bun and a fake, cheerful smile on her lips, lip-gloss freshly applied. A high school student with a part-time job. Her button-up, short-sleeved red shirt and black hat—both with a golden, trademark "M" stitched on—were immaculate. Strange that she was actually trying so hard to be a good employee; most people her age didn't care enough. Probably one of those on the lower side of the societal spectrum.

Angela took out her badge, showed it to her. The smile went away, replaced with a frown. Angela spoke before the girl could. "I'm Detective Dodson, this is my partner, Detective Weiss. We'd like to ask a few questions. Is your manager here?"

The girl didn't even seem to take notice of Angela's words, only the sole possible reason behind them. "This-this is about Alicia, isn't it?" she said in awe, far too loudly for the detectives' liking. Although there were only three customers here at this late hour, they were still receiving stares from the couple sitting in one of the favorable window booths. The third customer—a brunette college student sitting at one of the small, single square tables on one of the uncomfortable, tan plastic seats—had his headphones on and was immersed in a book on Psychology. He couldn't hear a word.

Weiss said, "If you could just get your manager, we'd really appreciate it."

The girl seemed to snap out of her trance, the trance of the shocked-by-yet-attracted-to-horror that was so very close and yet just far enough away to not be personal. Her eyes flicked from Weiss to Angela back to Weiss again, and she nervously picked at the skin just beneath the tips of her fingernails without even realizing she was doing so.

"Uh, my manager's not here right now. He left like an hour ago. He doesn't stick around this late. I-I could try go get in contact with him, I guess, but I don't really know… how to, I mean." She was babbling. She was nervous. Was it just because she was caught off-guard, because they were cops, or was there a more sinister reason?

Were Angela and Weiss just being paranoid? Angela for one felt no danger from this girl, no sign of influence, no mark of evil, but then again, she had not _always_ felt it before, had she? Of course not.

Yet somehow Angela felt as if she _should_ have this time, if she concentrated on it, especially if she knew who the influencer actually _was_.

Angela was concentrating. She detected nothing.

"We'd like to just ask you some questions, then, as long as that's all right," Angela said, as kindly but as firmly as she could.

"Oh, um, sure." Turning her head, the girl called to the back. "Josh, can you get out here? I need ya to watch the counter!"

A young, male voice answered, and a tall African-American boy came with it. "What? Why?"

Weiss took out his badge this time, showing him. "We just need to ask a few questions."

The boy adjusted his black cap, not quite sure of what to do or say. "Yeah, okay." He stepped forward and moved towards the girl and the register. The girl stepped to the side, motioned for Angela and Xavier to come to the back, around the counter.

"You can come this way, I guess."

And they did, completely ignoring the looks they were now getting from the customers.

As it turned out, they might as well have not come at all. There was nothing. _Nothing._ All they heard was the same old, same old. Alicia was a sweet girl, good worker, college student, the usual. There were maybe two people in the whole staff that ever had problems with her, but after interviewing them, Angela wasn't hopeful. The two just didn't seem to be the murderous type, and there was no mark of influence on either of them.

Was this going to be just another unsolved mystery, another mindless murder in an oblivious city? Another discarded bead of a broken bracelet that slips through the cracks?

No, it couldn't be. Not when Angela had Dameon. It _couldn't_ be… could it?

"…thank you for your time," Angela was saying as her and Xavier prepared to leave, doing her best to hide her disappointment. Luckily, both she and Weiss were masters at it by this point in their careers. "If anyone thinks of anything, please don't hesitate to call."

Walking out the front doors of the McDonalds, Angela and Weiss were blasted with heat. It was like hitting a brick wall, moving from the cool air-conditioned restaurant to the sun-roasted outdoors. Yet neither took any notice of the added discomfort; it paled too much in comparison with their frustrating case. No leads, no leads whatsoever.

It was too early to get frustrated, true, much too early… Yet Angela was, even as Weiss kept up an optimistic attitude.

"To the manager's apartment first," he said, reiterating their plans as he waited for her to unlock the SUV. "What was his name? Dan something?"

"Dan Sherman," Angela replied as she opened up the driver's side door. She got into her seat, Weiss doing the same beside her. She spoke with a mock-serious tone. "But just Dan, not Daniel. Miss Clemming was very specific."

Weiss smiled, laughed a little. "Let's go pay this _Dan_ Sherman a visit, then."

Naturally, they did, and naturally, he wasn't in. Out clubbing or at some girl's house or partying or in a gutter. Somewhere that wasn't his apartment, doing something that wasn't vegging out in front of a TV or sleeping.

"Let's go back to the precinct," Weiss said, "see what Lawson, Davison, and Cambell came up with. We can come back and see this guy tomorrow."

It was already late, and chances were, if Mr. Sherman wasn't there already, he was going to be staying out late, far later than they were willing to wait. Angela was getting anxious, though she tried not to show it. She needed to call John, needed to explore Hell, needed to look for Isabel. But at the same time, she needed to work on this case, needed to find Alicia Bennet's killer. She needed to hunt down Dameon, maybe force a name out of him somehow.

After they'd learned the results of the others' efforts—basically the same as theirs, though it _had_ been discovered that Alicia had not been raped or sexually abused in any sort of way—Angela and Weiss were sitting at their respective desks, going over the evidence and reports. Angela looked desperately at the photographs of the corpse of the girl who'd once been full of life, now nothing but rotting, inanimate matter. She looked at her neatly folded position in the alleyway, almost like a small girl peacefully asleep on her side, dreaming of bright green grass and adventures with cartoon characters.

Except for the large, gory blood stains on her chest, three of them.

Xavier noticed how antsy she was getting, how desolate. "Angie, go home, get some sleep," he told her. It was already close to midnight. "Don't kill yourself over this thing."

"I'm not," she responded, looking up at him with her forehead still resting on her hands. "I just need to look over these a few more times, see if there's anything we missed."

"Angie, you know as well as I do an exhausted cop is a worthless cop. Go home. We'll start fresh tomorrow." Before Angela could protest, he spoke again. "For Alicia's sake."

Angela was tempted to say that this _was_ for Alicia's sake, that her pouring over the photographs searching for any sort of clue, supernatural or not, was exactly what the girl needed… But she knew that he was right, even though she also knew she would not be getting any rest that night. She needed to look for Isabel. She _needed_ to. And even if she waited, her mind wouldn't rest, and neither would her body.

Angela gave in. "I'll leave if you will," she said at last.

"Angie-"

"Xavier."

It was his turn to give in.

"Fine. Come on, let's get out of here." There were only three other people in the crammed office—messy desks and computers completely coating the fairly large space—and the two bid each of them a good night before leaving.

* * *

Constantine lay on his bed, chewing a piece of gum and reading over _Daemonicii et Principatus in Terra._ It was slow going, since he was no Latin scholar like Beeman had been. He was unable to read the dead tongue almost as well as English. Yet he still knew his vocabulary, declensions, and conjugations. At least when it came to translating into English. Translating into Latin… was not something he could be trusted on doing correctly.

But even as John tried to concentrate on this thick, ancient Latin book of angels and demons on Earth, his mind wandered. Even as he tried to formulate questions to ask Lynn, even as he attempted to pick out passages and persons… his thoughts were on Chas and Beeman and Angela. Chas because he was dead because of him and was now his driver once more, no longer his apprentice but a half-breed. Beeman because this had been his book—this was Beeman's replacement he was prepping for—and Beeman was dead because of him, because of his failure to keep the bookworm out of harm's way and figure out the danger Balthazar had posed before it had been too late.

And Angela… Angela because he was worried about her, because he was worried about what would happen to her in Hell, because he hadn't heard from her… Because she was Angela and he was worried. He'd called about an hour earlier, around eleven, but there'd been no answer. Naturally, he was now assuming the worst.

How late did cops work, anyway?

When the phone rang, he shot up, shutting the thick volume immediately. Then, he _realized _just how much he was acting like an overexcited puppydog, and he made his motions smoother, slower, more indifferent. Maybe if he was able to fool himself…

Placing the book to the side on the bed, Constantine reached onto his bedside table and lifted the off-white, corded receiver. "Constantine."

"John? It's Angela." He'd never been more relieved to hear a voice, not over the phone, anyway.

"Home late?" he remarked, his nonchalant voice perfectly masking his true feelings.

"Yeah, a new case." She didn't specify, and absentmindedly, Constantine ran his hands over the surface of the book. "Listen, John, me going to Hell… When are we doing that, exactly?"

That had to have been the _strangest_ sentence to ever leave Angela's mouth. She felt foolish just for saying it, and Constantine almost smiled.

"Angela, you make it sound so serious," he teased. "You sure you want to go through with it? You sound so terrified about the whole thing."

She smiled, she couldn't help it. She had come off very "So John, when are we going to see that movie"-ish, hadn't she?

But she _was_ terrified, and he knew it. That was why, when he asked her if she still wanted to cross over to Hell, he was only one-tenth-kidding. "Yeah, John, I'm sure."

Damn it.

"So when did you want to do this 'going to Hell'-thing?" he asked her, partially quoting her and keeping up his apathetic façade. A good part of him hoped she'd say never, he knew that she never would. She _needed_ to do this, and not only that; it was the logical next step in her training. It would have to be done, sooner or later. She'd need to see Hell without full submersion and near-death.

All he could do would be to warn her of what was to come and be there when she crossed back over.

And although it _was _possible, he would not be going with her.

"Tomorrow," she said without hesitation. The sooner she got to see whether Isabel was truly in a better place, the better. And she wasn't so stubborn as to think she was up for the ordeal that night.

"All right. Tomorrow it is, then. Your place or mine?"

"Yours," she said almost too quickly. John smirked and Angela's cheeks reddened slightly. "I don't know when I'll be home, and it'll be a waste of time if I have to call you over or you have to wait around for me."

John was sorely tempted to mention how his place was more _private_ in the wee hours of the night, but he didn't. He wasn't _that_ cruel, or at least he just didn't _feel_ like being that cruel at the moment.

"What time are you planning on coming over?"

"Around 11 or 12, I'd guess."

John turned serious. "Angela, if you're too tired to do this-"

"I won't be." She would be, and she knew it.

"Angela-"

"John, I'll be fine."

In his trademark way, he said softly, "Sure."

A moment passed, and Angela spoke first, quietly, almost pleading. "John, I have to do this."

Just as quietly, he responded. "I know." But that didn't mean he was happy about it.

"Is there anything I need to do in particular beforehand, to prepare?"

Like what? Pray? What good would that do her? John would give her slightly more practical instructions. "Yeah, wear sneakers, and don't eat anything beforehand."

"Why shouldn't I eat anything?"

"The sulfur, you're not used to it yet, and the last thing you want to do is throw up in Hell. It's dangerous to stand still that long."

Angela felt a shiver of fear ripple along her spine. She'd seen Hell, yes, and the demons there, but only for moments. They'd only just noticed her before she'd been gone. Now… now it would be different.

"Right."

Another moment of silence. Angela's thoughts were swimming, and the sponge that was her mind was already overfull and having more than a little trouble absorbing.

John just didn't want her to go.

She said, "I'll see you tomorrow, John."

"See you tomorrow."

"Goodnight."

John hung up first, staring at the phone for at least a minute afterwards. Was this really a good idea? Angela was powerful, yes, probably the most powerful psychic on Earth, as things stood. He could feel the power radiating off of her when he was near, even more so now that he was teaching her how to harness it. That was why Mammon had chosen her, because of her power.

Yet she still didn't know how to control what she had. And to have such unbridled power… it was dangerous.

But that was all the more reason for her to go to Hell, to learn how to control her powers quickly. Definitely a crash course. Hopefully, the shock wouldn't make her abilities go out of control.

Hopefully.

Constantine never slept easily, rarely slept much. This night was no exception. Before John, when Isabel was not on her mind constantly, Angela had usually slept fairly well. This night, she could barely get her mind to calm down. This night, sleep was an inept bedfellow who just couldn't get inspiration to come.

* * *

**Vagrant:** I put linkies up in the next chap so you can watch 'em and tell moi what you think. :D And send me the Spuffy one! I wanna see!

**SlvrBldRain: **Who doesn't miss Chas? But he's here to stay, so yay! (Hee, that rhymed. :P) The AI Constantine is going to be pretty popular as it is anyway, though, so I'm sure he'll be fine.

**fanficgeek: **Oooh, thank ya for the chap. 10 review! And don't worry about forgetting originally. Not your fault was being evil. As for the J/A interaction, I think it'd get pretty boring if it WERE just them. So along with the pacing and realism factors, there's the interest factor. And thank ya on the dialogue, and Angela, and alla of it. Glad you like. :D

**Evelyn: **Glad you liked. And who doesn't love a little Chas:P

**Daydreamer: **I'm proud. (Pats on head) lol You amuse me, though… Love your duck piece… and love scene. Glad you liketh me fic. :P Now maybe if you update on time this time… ;)

**MrSConstantine:** Eh, don't worry 'bout missing a review. You're reviewing now. XD And congrats on the basketball! (Throws a party)

**YukeBaby:** Glad you like, and you finally were able to review! Woot! Thanks for pointing out specifics, too. I love when people do that.

**fanficgeek:** (For a 2nd time ;)) OO (Takes roses and puts 'em in a vase) I'm sorry for not updating quickly, but considering finals, can I PLZ still get the chocolates:P As for the Chas rendition… wow, just THANKS, not much else I can say. Chas actually plays a pretty serious part in this fic, so I'm glad I'm doing something right. And I'm guessing anyone reading this would know about the after-credits scene or would REALLY want to.

**Kirie:** I hate you… Yet I love you too. :P Good to know I gotz the personalities right. Thank ya! (Knew my bugging would come in handy. ;))

**slayerette: **O.O Wow, you read my fic for that long? It's liked THAT much? Wowzers, thank ya! (Huggles and glomps) I'm honored that you like it that much, seriously. Hopefully you like the rest just as much. And music vids a'comin' next chappie, I promise. :D


	13. Interviews

**A/N:** Yes, I know I haven't updated in a very long time… Sorry, guys! I will try to keep updating but I can't make any promises. Chances are good, however. I'm on Spring Break and we're coming up to a very cool part. So… sit back, relax, and enjoy the fic! Critique and reviews very much appreciated! Thanks so much to those who have read and reviewed! And, again, SO sorry for the long delay.

**+SPECIAL THANKS TOEPHEMEREAL FOR BETAING+

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A knock on the door. "Mr. Sherman?" Angela called through the door. She knocked again. "Mr. Sherman, this is the police. We need to ask you a few questions. Mr. Sherman!"

There was no answer, no faint, muffled footsteps. Nothing.

Frowning, Angela turned her face to Xavier, who was eyeing the door coolly. "This is starting to get suspicious," she said.

"Guy has secret girlfriend, doesn't want his secret to get out, kills secret girlfriend, skips town. Great relationship."

Angela shook her head slightly. "It's not enough for a warrant." She turned back to the door. "What are the chances that if I knock again, he'll answer?"

"Not real likely."

Angela turned away from apartment number 23 and began to walk down the cramped, white hallway. Xavier walked with her.

That morning, they'd finally gotten the autopsy results. Alicia Bennet had been killed by a butcher knife, and unluckily—or perhaps luckily—for her, the initial stab had severed a major artery. She'd bled to death quickly in some place that was not the alley, and then her body was dumped. It didn't seem that she had put up a struggle, for there were no defensive wounds and there didn't seem to be any castoff blood or skin under her fingernails, although definitive DNA results were not back yet. All they had were the tweed fibers, the blond hair, and the butcher knife.

"So where to now?" Angela asked as they made their way to the stairwell.

Weiss was about to answer when, behind them, the door to apartment number 23 creaked open. Instantly, the two detectives turned to look. A tall, heavyset man stood at the door, blond, in a stained white undershirt and jeans, probably pulled hastily on when the pounding on the door woke him up. His hair was a mess and he looked to be in desperate need of a shave and shower, half-dead even.

Hangover.

"You two-you two the ones knocking?" the man asked, putting his hand to his head and leaning against the doorframe.

"Are you Dan Sherman?" Weiss said.

"Depends," the man replied. "Who the hell are you?" Obviously, he hadn't heard them yell "police."

Both Weiss and Angela took out their badges. "We need to ask you some questions," Angela told him.

"This 'bout Alicia?" Weiss and Angela stayed silent. After the man thoroughly examined the two detectives, he stepped back and fully opened the door. "Come in," he called over his shoulder, already moving further into his apartment. Angela and Weiss exchanged glances before following and Weiss closed the door behind them.

It was a simple, three-room apartment, with a bathroom, kitchen, and living room/bedroom. But it wasn't the worst Angela and Weiss had ever seen. At least it had its own bathroom and seemed to be free of cockroaches, although for all the two detectives knew, it might well have been infested. Mr. Sherman went straight for the kitchen (a small room with chipped, dirty counters, ugly dark brown cabinets, and an antiquated fridge), grabbed a glass from beside the sink and filled it with cold tap water. He put it to his head, turning to face Angela and Weiss as he leaned against the countertop. "Well?"

"Did you know Alicia?" Angela asked.

"Yeah, I knew her. I was her boss, what the hell do ya think?" Mr. Sherman closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with the cool glass.

"What kind of relationship did you two have?"

He paused before he spoke. "A boss-employee relationship. What else do ya think?"

"Mr. Sherman, if you're not telling us something—"

"What something? I was her boss, she was my employee!" The simple act of raising his voice seemed to strain Mr. Sherman and he groaned and leaned into the glass.

"Do a lot of drinking last night?" Weiss asked, changing the subject so as to put the man more at ease.

"How'd you guess?"

"Mr. Sherman…" Angela began.

"All right, all right. I went out to a bar last night with some friends. It's not every night a girl at your job gets killed."

Angela wondered what it would be like to work under those circumstances but she said nothing. Her voice was gentler this time. "Did you know her well?"

"She was my employee, like I jus' said. Dontcha listen? But she was a sweet girl, I'll give her that."

Weiss and Angela both offered small smiles. "So we've heard," Angela said.

Weiss was about to ask Mr. Sherman where he'd been the night of Alicia's murder when the man spoke again. Apparently, even with his brute persona, it really didn't take that much to get him going. "Damn shame she wasn't single."

Weiss and Angela both froze, though in his hung-over state, Mr. Sherman didn't notice.

"She wasn't single?" Weiss asked.

"What, no! Pretty thing like her, she's taken." Although Mr. Sherman did not sound particularly innocent, Angela and Weiss nevertheless pounced on the new lead like cheetahs on elderly pray, even though it was very likely that Alicia had just told her pervy manager a fake story to get him off her back.

"Could you tell us who she was seeing?" Angela asked, her pen poised to take down the person's name in her small notebook.

Mr. Sherman took his head. "Girl neva even told me she was seein' someone till I started teasin' her about the hickeys on her neck. She blushed and denied it, the little-" The guy broke off with a nervous smirk, rolled the cup across his forehead.

"Would you know of anyone who would know?"

Mr. Sherman scrunched up his brow and opened his mouth; both detectives were expecting a negative response. He paused, closed his mouth, then spoke. "Have you asked 'Licia's parents?"

Xavier and Angela were careful not to look at each other. "Is there anyone else, Mr. Sherman?" She was careful not to add an explanation for her inquiry; if anything, it would only serve to make the man suspicious, no matter how hung-over he was.

"Um… the girl's grandma, prolly. She came in sobbing one day until some old lady came in an' picked her up. Guessin' it was her grandma."

Well, Angela and Xavier hadn't heard of any of this before. "Do you have any idea what upset Alicia?" Xavier asked.

"No idea. The girl wouldn't talk. It wasn't too long after I spotted the hickeys so it could've been a fight with her boyfriend." He paused, and his eyes widened. His hand lowered the glass and placed it on the countertop. "You don't—"

"—When did you say this was?" Angela interrupted.

"What? Oh, um… dammit." He put a hand to his head, stretched his neck on both sides with shut eyes. "Two, three weeks ago? I'm sorry, I should have, I just didn't think—"

Xavier spoke, trying to comfort the man. "You couldn't have known." Mr. Sherman nodded and Angela asked the necessary question. "Mr. Sherman, where were you the night of April 11th?"

"You don't think _I-_"

"Mr. Sherman, it's a standard question. Please answer it."

"I don't remember, I was probably at home, vegging out in front of the TV."

"Can anyone verify your whereabouts?"

Angry, Mr. Sherman shook his head. "No, I was alone. Now I've answered your questions. Go find her real killer, would ya?" Sherman pointed towards the door, moving the glass around on his forehead.

Angela closed her small notebook. Typical reaction. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Sherman," Xavier said.

"Yeah, now go find her killer. Get out."

* * *

Mariah Stiller, Alicia Bennet's grandmother on her mother's side, was a real piece of work. Unwilling to appear frail like the rest of those old grannies, she dyed her hair chestnut brown every other month. She coated her face in makeup, and had she had enough money, she would have gotten more than just one facelift, though for an 80-something year old woman, she had a surprisingly small amount of wrinkles. Both kindly and eccentric, she was incredibly easy to get along with, and her small apartment was filled with all sorts of knick-knacks, from old tea sets to wooden Aztec statues, from pictures of kittens and flowers to woven Indian rugs. Only her furniture seemed to be uniform: plain and comfortable, the sort most elderly people seemed to have.

After a lifetime of hardship and happiness, despair and delight, collapse and creation, Alicia's death had finally defeated her.

The strong, aged woman was now a small and broken being, a creature unsure of herself and the world around her, like a terribly shy, abused child. She sat on the soft, mellow gray couch in her petite living room, a bright, multi-colored woven blanket wrapped around herself. Standing before here were two detectives, and she watched them demurely.

"Alicia? Fighting?" she asked in a tiny, brittle voice reminiscent of dry brown leaves crackling underfoot, crushed into silence and dust.

"Yes, with anyone, anyone at all that you can think of. Friends, family, people from her college. Was there anyone she didn't get along with?" Angela replied.

"Or got along with too well?" Weiss added.

"I-I don't…" The woman swiped a shuddering, wrinkled hand under each eye, getting rid of expected tears that were not yet there.

"I'm sorry, I know this must be very hard for you," Angela said. "But anything, anything at all that you can tell us might help us catch her killer."

Ms. Stiller said nothing for a minute, only examined her hands, the plain golden wedding band she still wore, the tan rug on her floor, the shoes of the detectives, the bottom of her small writing desk, her whitewashed walls… anything and everything that did not require bringing her head up or looking at the detectives' faces.

She was thinking and trying her best _not_ to think all at once.

Angela and Weiss gave her the time she needed without comment. They'd seen this sort of thing all too many times before.

"No," she said at last, bringing her tired, cloudy blue eyes up. "No, Alica didn't fight, she didn't—didn't fight. Some people just didn't, they just didn't understand, but she never, he would never—" She broke off.

"Who didn't understand?" Angela pressed.

"People, I—her father, he never, never really got her and Cindy, but she was such a good girl, and it was just a phase… Just a phase… Her and Cindy, such sweet girls."

Weiss and Angela exchanged looks. The meaning behind these words was unmistakable.

"Were Cindy and Alicia romantically involved?" Weiss questioned and Angela watched the old woman intently.

Mariah Stiller was incapable of answering. Instead, she murmured one last thing, her eyes again fixed on the floor, but this time, she saw none of it. "Such sweet girls, but how Stu and Claire would scream…"

Alicia Bennet had been a lesbian, and Cindy hadn't just been her best friend; she'd been her girlfriend. And it seemed the parents had not been too pleased.

There were now three fresh suspects: Cindy—a lover's spat, perhaps?—and Alicia's parents—had the disappointment of a lesbian daughter finally gotten to one of them? If neither of these leads panned out, they would try Cindy's parents.

To Angela, the father was starting to look good for the murder. He was an older man, he had a tweed coat. Not only that, but Angela was beginning to allow herself to _feel_ it, feel where the vibrations of influence led her.

It was time to do some return visits, it was time to consciously use her psychic abilities.

And if things panned out, it was time to get a warrant.

* * *

They visited Cinderella first but they didn't need a glass slipper to find her after the Ball, didn't have to get past an evil stepmother and stepsisters to speak to her. All they needed was her apartment number, which they had.

"What do you want now?" she demanded the moment she opened the door. It seemed she had finally gotten dressed and was wearing a ruffled, jasmine tube-top with faded blue jeans. Her eyes were no longer bloodshot. Cindy didn't have it in her to cry anymore; her body and soul wouldn't allow her any more tears, not for a while, at least. She couldn't handle it.

Angela didn't sense any traces of the Fallen on the girl and felt a pang of sympathy as she answered. "I'm sorry, Cindy, but can we come in?"

The college student looked at them both for a moment, but although she seemed as worn out as the grandmother had been, there was the strength of youth in her, an inner core of titanium holding her up and together, permanent super glue of the psyche.

"Whatever." She turned and walked to the left of the door, towards the edge of the miniature entrance hallway. She wouldn't take them into the living room this time; this interview would be quick. They'd talk here, and since the detectives would be right beside the door, they'd be able to leave quickly. She could not endure a long interrogation.

Once they were in, the door shut behind them and Cindy turned, her arms crossed.

"Cindy, I need to ask you something, something that's probably going to be very difficult for you. I need you to answer truthfully."

Why did she have a feeling that she knew where this was going?

Unlike in the fairy tale, Cinderella was resigned to her fate. Her Princess Charming was gone and dead, after all. She wasn't going to be swept off her feet.

"Were you and Alicia Bennet romantically involved?"

It took Cindy a moment to answer but she did, forcing herself to look straight at Angela as she did so. "Yeah, yeah we were."

"Your parents, what did they think of that?"

Cindy smirked. "My parents? Are you crazy? They didn't know."

"And Alicia's parents?"

Cindy paused, unsure if she liked where this question and answer session was going. She looked away, examined the scuffed hardwood floor underneath her bare feet, examined the black molding at the bottom of the skin-colored wall.

Cindy looked back up at the detectives, Angela especially, willing to answer. "Her mother was in denial, complete denial. Her father, he was too, but not so much. 'Licia didn't want to admit it, but he was pissed."

* * *

"I thought we told you everything you needed," Alicia's father said and Angela and Weiss noticed how badly his pants and tweed coat were wrinkled, as if he did not even have the strength to change clothes.

"We just have a few follow-up questions," Weiss told him.

"Did you have any problems with your daughter, Mister Bennet?" Angela asked, watching the man carefully.

He was strongly taken aback and looked as if he had just been told his home and life's savings were being given to the latest lottery winner. "What? No, of course not."

"Where's your wife, Mr. Bennet?" Weiss asked, also observing him closely.

"She's asleep. The poor woman has hardly been able to close her eyes without sobbing since Alicia's death. What does that have to do with anything?"

"We need to talk to her again."

"Why? What is this about?"

"Just a routine follow-up. Nothing more."

"Well I'm not going to wake my wife." The man crossed his arms, looking at the two of them fiercely through half-moon spectacles. "You can come back when she's awake."

Angela said, "We'd like to ask you a few questions, then, if that'd be okay."

"Hey, while you're here questioning me like some sort of criminal, my daughter's _killer_ is out there!" Mr. Bennet exclaimed, fiercely brandishing his arm and pointing to the door. "Are the police _so_ incapable of _apprehending_ him? Are you all so _impotent_?"

Neither Angela nor Weiss said a thing at first. They did not even look at each other. They had seen such outbursts so many times before. However, Weiss spoke first.

"Mr. Bennet, the sooner you cooperate with us, the sooner we can find your daughter's killer."

The man stood before them, just about shaking with rage. They could see the sweat running down the side of his face.

"Get out," he said at last.

"Mr. Bennet, please," Angela said, but she was interrupted by the man himself.

"Get the hell out. Get the hell out!"

What could they do? They got the hell out, but when they left, they were also a hell of a lot more suspicious than they had been when they'd entered.

"If you think of anything, you know where to find us," Angela said before they left, and with that, they were gone, although as promised, they would be back to talk to Mrs. Bennet.

"What do you think?" Angela asked once they were on the street, walking over to his car, a nice looking, gold Ford Taurus.

"I think we should get a warrant."

"Sounds good to me."


	14. Preparations and Deliberations

**A/N:** Well, my next update will probably take a while (going back to school, after all; bah Spring Break being over!) but it WILL happen. I've already got a large portion of it written. For those waiting for Angela and Constantine to actually SEE each other again, next chappie'll be it.

**A/N2:** Thanks to my reviewers Karilee Kamicat, Lady Underworld, ColorxMexFake, xCR1MSON-T3ARSx, Evelyn Valerious, a red burn, and VagrantCandy. Glad to see I haven't driven you all off. :D Thanks to everyone who reviewed chapter twelve, as well. I'm afraid I did not thank you all properly but when I get some time off from schoolwork, I'll edit and add in a proper thank you. Just know that you guys really are awesome! As always, enjoy this chappie! **Reviews, especially those with advanced critique, encouraged!**

**-SPECIAL THANKS TO MY BUD MARIYA FOR BETAING-

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**Preparations and Deliberations**

That morning, Constantine woke up early, feeling as if he hadn't slept all night; truth be told, he might as well not have, with all the Z's he actually got. He felt like crap and the sunlight squeezing in through the opened blinds seemed pale and dirty, befouling rather than cleansing. He would have liked to blame the lack of sleep or his cynical outlook for his mood, but he knew the real reason: Angela. Angela and her visit to Hell, scheduled for that night. He'd agreed to this _why_? She wasn't ready for this, wasn't ready to be completely submerged in fire and brimstone, in Lu's domain. The son of a bitch still had it out for him, especially after the Big Man himself deprived the devil of his prize. Constantine hoped he wasn't making a mistake in giving Angela what she wanted, even though he knew he probably was. He usually did.

Partially to distract himself, partially because he had to do it at some point, and partially because life went on no matter what his mood, Constantine got dressed in a clean suit, grabbed some ancient texts and jammed them in a black bag, and called up Chas at his old number. Surprise, surprise, the kid answered.

"Need a ride, John?"

"Yeah, over to 325 Blue Orchid Avenue. Know where it is?"

"Of course I know where it is, John. She know you're coming?"

So, Chas knew about Lynn. Pretty well informed for a half-breed runt. John wasn't surprised. "Figured I'd drop by, surprise her."

"Yeah, she'll love that. I'll bring the cab over, be over in ten."

"Couldn't you just fly over?"

"And take the cab with me? Sorry, no can do, John. I'll be over in ten minutes, like I said."

John hung up the receiver. It felt just like old times, with the addition of wings and a confidence Chas had never really displayed in front of his idol before. Picking up his bag, the exorcist closed the shades, left his apartment, made his way quickly down the steps, nodded towards the manager of the bowling alley—opening up—and went outside. Chas wouldn't be there for a while but John could wait. It wasn't as if he had anything better to do.

When Chas pulled up he found Constantine leaning against the blue wall right below the "w" in the third "Bowl." He didn't bother to wave John over; he'd come over himself. He heard the door close behind him and, after a moment, he spoke. "What, no hello?"

Constantine smirked. "Hey, kid."

"So… big night tonight?" John jerked his eyes away from the window and to the back of Chas's seat, the wings peeking out around the edges. He didn't answer. "John, come on, what am I gonna do, stop you?"

"Maybe." It was unnerving, this reminder that Chas really was a half-breed now, a player in the game. He was no longer a sidekick but someone John had to be careful around, someone he could use as an "in" to Heaven but someone who was potentially dangerous, someone with real power who would be watching him just the same.

Chas smiled. "I can't interfere, John. You know that."

"Then why ask?"

Constantine saw a shoulder shrug. "Curiosity, conversation, concern. A bunch of c-words."

"I liked you more when you were human, Chas. Less cryptic."

"John, come on, gimme something. How are you doing it, John what's your plan to protect Angela?"

Constantine stayed quiet for a long moment. He ran through plans, options, everything that kept him up the night before. What was the safest way, _was_ there a safe way, what would she accept? Did he even want to protect her, after the shit she pulled at Midnite's? Constantine was loath to admit to himself that he'd entertained thoughts of giving her just as much "freedom" as she desired, and he had entertained these thoughts for a good long while. After all, it wasn't as if he could do much. He didn't have any of the trinkets necessary to protect Angela and he really doubted Lynn would have any on hand, although the possibility that she did was certainly a motive for his little visit. There was still the amulet but John was afraid that it would keep her away from Hell rather than protect her once she was there. It was too much of a ward against evil—especially against Hell—and it would stunt Angela's abilities, possibly too much to even allow a proper crossing-over. Besides, he didn't want Angela to resent him any more than she already did, and forcing her to wear the amulet she obviously hated would not exactly make her love him.

There was always the option of going with Angela, but something told him she wouldn't like that. Furthermore, there was also that sadistic, resentful part of him that didn't want to aid her; she obviously didn't _want _him to help, after all, and with the way she'd been lately, no doubt she would hold a grudge if he did.

But honestly, he wasn't sure if he would go with her or not. That was something he was still debating. So what else could he do? He would talk to her about what to expect, tell her what to feel for, what to look for, how to handle the situation. The demons would be after her, and she would have to know how to avoid them for as long as possible; it was impossible to keep away from them forever, especially with the walk Angela had in front of her. If the detective really wanted to look for Isabel, she would have to go to Ravenscar. In all likelihood, she would feel a pull to the hospital, a pull to the site of Isabel's suicide, but with Isabel long-gone, it was very possible that Angela would not sense a thing.

To make matters even worse, Constantine had a sneaking suspicion that Angela did not doubt Lucifer's word—which Constantine could easily understand—but his; she doubted that he had asked the Devil to release Isabel, or at least that was what part of him was insisting. Angela's trip to Hell was a real point of bitterness for the exorcist.

"I'll do what's necessary."

"Now who's being cryptic?"

Again, John did not respond. Instead, he turned away from Chas and looked back out the window. It was starting to drizzle and small droplets were leaking down the glass, blurring the street, buildings, cars, people. While stopped at a red light, John thought he might have seen a dog, but he couldn't quite make it out, catching a glimpse of dark brown fur only as the light turned green. The ghosts were out, too. Hard to distinguish them from the living, even though it was a safe bet that those without umbrellas were the ghosts. Yet it was still impossible to tell who was just a person caught outside in the rain and who was dead. Every now and then he caught a glimpse of half-breeds, wings and rotting faces. It was easier to spot the Blessed than the Damned; the wings were distinctive.

It was about twenty minutes before they reached Carolyn's place and pulled up in front. There was a red stripe along the sidewalk and Constantine stepped out onto it, the edge of his heel right on its edge. "Wait here."

"John, you know it's a fire lane, right? I can't park here, John!" The door was already closing.

"Then move the car." Constantine shut the door.

It was raining harder now, bordering on a regular shower. Not that bad, all things considered. He took his bag out of the trunk quickly and strode over to the entrance of the tall, white building, making his way between the two Roman columns and into the small entrance hall. To the left were buzzers for every apartment; he couldn't get in without being let in. Constantine scanned for 663: Minnow and pressed the small metal button. It was only a little past seven in the morning and she wasn't employed. Chances were she'd be in, probably asleep. No doubt he would be causing a disturbance.

A minute passed and there was no answer. John buzzed again. Another minute passed and he considered ringing a third time when he heard a voice from the speaker. "Yeah, who is it?" Lynn's tone was annoyed and impatient.

"Constantine."

A pause. "For the love of… can't this wait?"

"It could, but I might need to find myself another bookworm in the meantime."

"Ugh, fine." Constantine heard a buzz and he stepped up to the door and pulled it open. Two minutes later, he was at her apartment. He was just about to ring when Lynn opened the door, appearing thoroughly annoyed in her white bathrobe. Her hair was a mess and shadows were starting to bloom beneath her eyes. Crossing her arms, she barred the doorway. "What do you want?"

"I need to make sure you're as talented as you make yourself out to be." He had an urge to ask her about the protective charm but decided against it, at least for the moment. He would see how she did on this first.

She paused for a long moment, watching him, mulling things over. At last, she hissed, "Fine, take off your shoes and be _quiet_."

He said nothing, just walked in as she stepped aside. However, he did do as she'd requested and slipped off the black shoes, leaving them next to the closed front door. "We gonna turn on the lights?" he asked. It was cloudy outside and not much light was getting in, even though all the windows were open to the daytime sky.

She smiled at him darkly. "No, I think we're good, don't you? Now speak quietly or get the hell out. I don't need this job, remember? I don't have to be your own personal scholar."

Apparently he'd come at a bad time and his eyes flicked over to her bedroom door, shut. It would not surprise him if she had company in that bed, probably sleeping over a night's aerobics. Hell, she could also be babysitting a friend's one-year-old and she had only gotten to bed an hour ago. Or maybe it was something else, a hangover, although he didn't smell any alcohol on her, and alcohol was something he knew well. Whatever, her nighttime doings didn't concern him. He had more important things to worry about.

"This won't take long."

Lynn rolled her eyes. "You have a real great sense of timing, you know that?" Tightening the belt around her waist, she walked over to the orange, vinyl-lined couch and plopped down. She gestured for him to sit at the opposite end. "Well, come on and do it, then," she beckoned softly. "Let's get goin', cowboy."

Again, Constantine did as she said and sat down, unzipping his black bag. He took out Hell's Bible first, plastic-covered, just as Beeman had left it. Probably the last thing the man had read before he died. "Open to a random page, translate it for me, and tell me whereabouts it is in the Bible." He handed over the large volume, knowing full well that there were large sections of this book that even Beeman had barely known. The fact remained that it was still a useful test.

Frowning, she took the Bible and placed it on her lap, looking at the upside-down crucified Jesus. "Hell's Bible, right?" Constantine didn't bother to respond. Lynn sighed and pulled the plastic away from the pages, although she kept it on the cover. When she opened the book, it was to somewhere about a third of the way in. "Um… let's see…" This was pretty complex Latin and she wasn't usually put on the spot like this. "Paraphrase or exact?"

"Paraphrasing's fine."

"Um, it's told from someone's point-of-view, not sure whose. Wait, here it is. The son of David, king of Jerusalem. Yeah, pretty damn powerful someone. He's saying how the Devil sent his soldiers and apostles to speak to him and cajole him to sin." She skimmed through the next few lines, examining case endings, person, tense, mood. "Let's see. He's seeking happiness and the demons suggest using his wealth and influence to obtain knowledge for himself, pleasure for himself, magnificent buildings. They lead him to decadence and he's all too willing to dive in and please himself. Guessing this is Ecclesiastes, Hell's version of Solomon's confession. Huh, this seems to be basically like it is in the Bible, except the 'Teacher,' while lamenting his pain, does not lament his life. He suffers but he-"

"All right. Let me see." A little startled, Lynn looked up and Constantine reached for the book. She allowed him to take it, turn the Bible around and look it over.

"Can you even read it?" she asked after a while, watching him with a raised eyebrow. He glanced up at her and she met his gaze. She seemed to be challenging him, daring him somehow.

"No, I can't," he replied, his eyes fixed on hers. "I'm going to guess if you got it right." It wasn't hard to detect the sarcasm.

"Fine, if you can read it, what do you need me for?" she demanded. He didn't even bother to look back up at her.

"I can't read it quickly, I can't carry these around with me, and I can't devote hours to translation. Besides, research isn't all I'm hiring you for." He didn't exactly have many suppliers left who could get him what he needed. Make that none, at least none that he could trust. He couldn't try to weasel into the business, either; he had conned too many people and made far too many enemies for that.

Time passed and Lynn felt herself growing more and more impatient, tapping a finger on her arm. She could be in bed right now, asleep, with her lover who had work that evening, rather than sitting on her couch and being interrogated by a jackass employer with a wannabe badass attitude. She had to resist the urge to do something rather offensive when he calmly reached into his black coat and took out a piece of gum.

"Okay," he said at last, and handed her back the Bible. "Try another section further on."

She did as she was told wordlessly but with a glare that said it all. Once they were done with that, they moved on to some book in Mandarin, a myth in Egyptian hieroglyphics and a demonic text written in Hell-speak.

"Holy _shit_," Lynn hissed the moment she got her hands on the demonic text, and she seemed both scared and genuinely excited. "I didn't-I thought this was basically all in Latin now. How, wh- I haven't seen something in Hell-speak in _years_."

"Can you read it?"

"I-I could try. I'd say I'm rusty but that's-that's an understatement. I went through a phase where I tried to track down as many texts in Hell-speak as possible but even their Bible is in Latin. It was near impossible to track one down without payin' a small fortune and getting' involved with none-too-benign company. Um, Cain didn't want me looking into it any further—afraid of the evil influences at work, I s'pose, so I just-" Finally looking away from the old, old book—practically falling apart—she fixed her eyes on Constantine's patient visage. "You really don't give a rat's ass, do ya?"

"Not particularly."

She smiled. "Well, the long and short of it is, I can't translate this on the spot for you, though I'd love to study it extensively. Give me a few months and I'd have this thing inside and out. Now, I'd probably be able to get a word here and there, but not enough to help you very much." That she could even do that much was impressive—not many a mortal could spend too much time with Hell-speak without feeling ill effects—but it was still a disappointment. Although rare, there were some important works done in Hell-speak and sometimes demonic half-breeds wrote in it to communicate. Beeman had at least been proficient at it but as John could easily see, this woman was no Beeman.

"All right, fine. Thanks for the candor." He reached out for the book and, somewhat hesitantly, she returned it. Carefully, he put it back in his bag, which was set on the floor by his feet. That was all he had. For a moment, he considered asking her some questions about the Balance, the secrets of the universe, and shit like that, but decided against it. He had something of far greater importance to inquire after. He sat up. "I've got a request."

"A request?"

"I need to know if you have any protective trinkets laying around. A ring, a necklace, an amulet. Something that could be worn without stifling someone's abilities but could protect their spirit in Hell."

Lynn seemed to think about it for a moment, but in the end, she shook her head. "'Fraid not. I could get one for y-"

"When?"

"Two, three days maybe. That good?"

Constantine slumped back in his seat. Would Angela wait that long? He doubted it, though he would still try asking. "No, but get it anyway."

"A'right, check. That it, or is there a cross-examination comin' up?"

He smiled. "Nope. You've passed."

"Fantastic." Lynn practically leapt to her feet, and although Constantine noticed the sinking neckline of her robe, he didn't comment or dwell on it. There were more important things to focus on.

"Call me when you get it," he told her after he got up. Leaning down, he took the bag by the handle and picked it up.

"Sure thing, boss." Her left hand on her hip, she stuck out her right. "Shake on it?"

Constantine smirked. She was really into that hand-shaking thing, wasn't she? They shook.

When John opened the door to leave the apartment, shoes comfortably on once more, his gum in the garbage, he heard the bedroom door open behind him.

"Took you long enough," he heard a sleepy, distinctly female voice grumble.

"Sorry 'bout that, sweetie," Lynn replied. "I was—" The door shut. Constantine paused, angled his head back to the side for a moment, and closed the door behind him.

* * *

"Any luck?" Chas asked when Constantine got back in the car. 

"Loads."

The two drove in silence for a good ten minutes before Chas spoke again. "She really does need help, John. You can't let her go to Hell by herself."

"Let me decide what she needs and doesn't need, okay, kid?"

"John—"

"Chas, I know what I'm doing. It's not like I haven't done this before. Now shut up and get me home."

Chas sighed. "Whatever you say, boss."

Constantine looked back out the window and watched the rain smear Los Angeles into a warped labyrinth.

* * *

The rest of the day was fairly uneventful. John was back in his apartment by noon but he had nothing with which to fill the long hours. He considered going over to Midnite's, see if the good witch doctor had any useful items lying around, but he decided against it. He did not want Midnite knowing his plans, especially not with so many half-breeds scurrying around the bar like so many rats fucking eager for a way to make John Constantine's life a miserable, living hell. They couldn't seem to get him in the real Tartarus, after all. 

It was a good thing he had plenty of nicotine gum left, else he would have run out in the span of an hour. He actually had food, too, and he opened up the fridge and made a quick turkey sandwich with mayo. His brunch: a sandwich and a Coke. He practically had to force himself to eat but he knew that, whether he was hungry or not, he would need the energy.

All day long, he could think of nothing but how stupid he must have been to agree to show Angela Hell when she had been a full-fledged psychic for all of three weeks. He would asked her to wait a few days, definitely, so that he could at least get her the protection she needed, but he doubted she would go for it. Not when there was a chance her beloved twin was still suffering somewhere down below. This thought led to thoughts of his own sister but he pushed those away. He did not have time for grief and a fresh bout of self-loathing. Instead, he ran through his options. He could ask her to wear the amulet, but that would be like asking a swimmer to wear lead weights. She'd end up sitting in his kitchen with her feet in a bowl of water and her shoes ruined rather than in Hell, making her way towards Ravenscar. No, she could not wear the amulet. There was only one solution.

He would have to go with her.

Constantine did not think Angela would be too dead-set against having a companion, especially since she was brand-new to this psychic gig and probably had enough on her plate as it was. There was just one problem. It was easier for the demons to catch a scent when there was more than just one person to track, especially if these two persons were powerful psychics. While he was nowhere near Angela's status, they probably knew him intimately by now, and he was still a psychic who had devoted his life to the "supernatural." As for Angela's inexperience, that was more a hindrance than a help. Unable to shield her presence in any sort of way, she would stand out like a white flame in a chasm. No doubt Hell would disorient her, another reason he should go with her. Whether he went with her or didn't, there were drawbacks either way and either way could get them in serious shit. It wasn't that they could actually die in Hell, but their souls—which were really traveling between the planes—could become mutilated and ravaged, and souls did not heal quickly. If one were to get injured down there, it would be like having a half-breed whispering in one's ear 24/7, and although this influence wouldn't necessarily push a person towards a particular crime, it would impair her judgment, push her towards extremes, play with her mind and heart, maybe even drive her to do evil. The more sensitive the individual, the stronger the connection. If Angela got injured down there, it would seriously fuck with her head.

Constantine remembered his second trip down. Somehow, he didn't get hurt on his first but on his second… On his second, a soldier demon got him, put deep gashes across his chest. He wasn't quite right for over a year and, never a saint to begin with, really delved into the black arts and the wonderful world of coke and heroin. That was when he fucked up an exorcism and got a little girl killed. Even if he had never attempted suicide, Constantine would have been surprised to find himself in Heaven when he died. Regardless of whether his actions were entirely his fault, influence did not equal culpability. He knew that; it wasn't just Lu' he blamed for that girl's death.

Still not completely certain on what he was going to do, John continued to run through the possibilities. Angela went alone, she went with him, she didn't go at all…

It was a fun time for John Constantine that day.


End file.
